CULTURE MJ» IMPERIALISM
EDWARD W SAID
CULTURE
AND
IMPERIALISM
Edward W. Said
VINTAGE BOOKS
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York
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FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION JUNE 1994
Portions of this work, in different versions, have appeared in Field Day Pamphlets,
Grand Street, the Guardian, London Rnneiv of Books, AVa> Left Review, Raritan, the
Penguin edition of Kim, Rate and Clan, and Raymond Williams: Critical Perspectives ,
edited by Terry Eagleton.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., and Faber and
Faber Ltd., for permission to reprint “Tradition and the Individual Talent” from
Selected Essays by T. S. Eliot, copyright 1950 by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc.,
and renewed 1978 by Esme Valerie Eliot.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Said, Edward W.
Culture and imperialism/Edward W. Said — 1st Vintage Books ed.
p. cm.
Originally published: New York: Knopf, 1993.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-679-75054-1
1. European literature — History and criticism— Theory, etc.
2. Literamre — History and criticism —Theory, etc. 3. Imperialism in literature.
4. Colonies in literature. 5 . Politics and culture.
I. Tide,
[PN761.S28 1994J
809'.894 — dc20 93-43485
CTP
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8. 7 6 , 5 4 3 2 l
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For
Eqbal Ahmad
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The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away
from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses
than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much.
What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a
sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the
idea — something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a
sacrifice to. . . .
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
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Contents
Introduction xi
CHAPTER ONE
OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES,
INTERTWINED HISTORIES
r Empire, Geography, and Culture 3
11 Images of the Past, Pure and Impure ly
hi Two Visions in Heart of Darkness 19
iv Discrepant Experiences 31
v Connecting Empire to Secular Interpretation 43
CHAPTER TWO
CONSOLIDATED VISION
I Narrative and Social Space 6z
II Jane Austen and Empire 80
hi The Cultural Integrity of Empire 97
iv The Empire at Work: Verdi’s Aida 111
v The Pleasures of Imperialism 13a
vi The Native Under Control 162
vii Camus and the French Imperial Experience 169
vin A Note on Modernism 186
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Contents
CHAPTER THREE
RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
i There Are Two Sides 191
II Themes of Resistance Culture 209
III Yeats and Decolonization 220
iv The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition 239
v Collaboration, Independence, and Liberation 262
CHAPTER FOUR
FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
I American Ascendancy: The Public Space at War 282
II Challenging Orthodoxy and Authority 303
in Movements and Migrations 326
Notes 337
Index 363
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Introduction
A bout five years after Orientalism was published in 1978 , 1 began to gather
together some ideas about the general relationship between culture
and empire that had become clear to me while writing that book. The first
result was a series of lectures that I gave at universities in the United States,
Canada, and England in 1985 and 1986. These lectures form the core argu-
ment of the present work, which has occupied me steadily since that time.
A substantial amount of scholarship in anthropology, history, and area
studies has developed arguments I put forward in Orientalism, which was
limited to the Middle East. So I, too, have tried here to expand the argu-
ments of the earlier book to describe a more general pattern of relationships
between the modern metropolitan West and its overseas territories,
What are some of the non-Middle Eastern materials drawn on here?
European writing on Africa, India, pans of the Far East, Australia, and the
Caribbean; these Africanist and Indianist discourses, as some of them have
been called, I see as part of the general European effort to rule distant lands
and peoples and, therefore, as related to Orientalist descriptions of the
Islamic world, as well as to Europe’s special ways of representing the
Caribbean islands, Ireland, and the Far East What are striking in these
discourses are the rhetorical figures one keeps encountering in their descrip-
tions of “the mysterious East,” as well as the stereotypes about “the African
[or Indian or Irish orjamaican or Chinese] mind,” the notions about bring-
ing civilization to primitive or barbaric peoples, the disturbingly familiar
ideas about flogging or death or extended punishment being required when
“they” misbehaved or became rebellious, because “they” mainly understood
force or violence best; “they” were not like “us,” and for that reason de-
served to be ruled.
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xii
Yet it was the case nearly everywhere in the non-European world that the
coming of the wh'ite man brought forth some son of resistance. What I left
out of Orientalism was that response to Western dominance which cul-
minated in the great movement of decolonization all across' the Third
World. Along with armed resistance in places as diverse as nineteenth-
century Algeria, Ireland, and Indonesia, there also went considerable efforts
in cultural resistance almost everywhere, the assertions of nationalist identi-
ties, and, in the political realm, the creation of associations and parties whose
common goal was self-determination and national independence. Never was
it the case that the imperial encounter pitted an active Western intruder
against a supine or inert non- Western native; there was always some form of
active resistance, and in the overwhelming majority of cases, the resistance
finally won out.
These two factors — a general world-wide pattern of imperial culture, and
a historical experience of resistance against empire — inform this book in
ways that make it not just a sequel to Orientalism but an attempt to do
something else. In both books I have emphasized what in a rather general
way I have called “culture.” As I use the word, “culture” means two things
in particular. First of all it means all those practices, like the arts of descrip-
tion, communication, and representation, that have relative autonomy from
the economic, social, and political realms and that often exist in aesthetic
forms, one of whose principal aims is pleasure. Included, of course, are both
the popular stock of lore about distant parts of the world and specialized
knowledge available in such learned disciplines as ethnography, historiogra-
phy, philology, sociology, and literary history. Since my exclusive focus here
is on the modem Western empires of the nineteenth and twentieth centu-
ries, I have looked especially at cultural forms like the novel, which I believe
were immensely important in the formation of imperial attitudes, references,
and experiences. I do not mean that only the novel was important, but that
I consider it the aesthetic object whose connection to the expanding societies
of Britain and France is particularly interesting to study. The prototypical
modern realistic novel is Robinson Crusoe, and certainly not accidentally it is
about a European who creates a fiefdom for himself on a distant, non-
European island.
A great deal of recent criticism has concentrated on narrative fiction, yet
very little attention has been paid to its position in the history and world of
empire. Readers of this book will quickly discover that narrative is crucial
to my argument here, my basic point being that stories are at the heart of
what explorers and novelists say about strange regions of the world; they
also become the method colonized people use to assert their own identity
and the existence of their own history. The main battle in imperialism is
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xiii
over land, of course; but when it came to who owned the land, who had the
right to settle and work on it, who kept it going, who won it back, and who
now plans its future — these issues were reflected, contested, and even for a
time decided in narrative. As one critic has suggested, nations themselves
are narrations. The power to narrate, or to block other narratives from
forming and emerging, is very important to culture and imperialism, and
constitutes one of the main connections between them. Most important, the
grand narratives of emancipation and enlightenment mobilized people in the
colonial world to rise up and throw off imperial subjection; in the process,
many Europeans and Americans were also stirred by these stories and their
protagonists, and they too fought for new narratives of equality and human
community.
Second, and almost imperceptibly, culture is a concept that includes a
refining and elevating element, each society’s reservoir of the best that has
been known and thought, as Matthew Arnold put it in the 1860s. Arnold
believed that culture palliates, if it does not altogether neutralize, the rav-
ages of a modern, aggressive, mercantile, and brutalizing urban existence.
You read Dante or Shakespeare in order to keep up with the best that was
thought and known, and also to see yourself, your people, society, and
tradition in their best lights. In time, culture comes to be associated, often
aggressively, with the nation or the state; this differentiates “us” from
“them,” almost always with some degree of xenophobia. Culture in this
sense is a source of identity, and a rather combative one at that, as we see
in recent “returns” to culture and tradition. These “returns” accompany
rigorous codes of intellectual and moral behavior that are opposed to the
permissiveness associated with such relatively liberal philosophies as mul-
ticulturalism and hybridity. In the formerly colonized world, these “returns”
have produced varieties of religious and nationalist fundamentalism.
In this second sense culture is a sort of theater where various political and
ideological causes engage one another. Far from being a placid realm of
Apollonian gentility, culture can even be a battleground on which causes
expose themselves to the light of day and contend with one another, making
it apparent that, for instance, American, French, or Indian students who are
taught to read their national classics before they read others are expected to
appreciate and belong loyally, often uncritically, to their nations and tradi-
tions while denigrating or fighting against others.
Now the trouble with this idea of culture is that it entails not only
venerating one’s own culture but also thinking of it as somehow divorced
from, because transcending, the everyday world. Most professional human-
ists as a result are unable to make the connection between the prolonged and
sordid cruelty of practices such as slavery, colonialist and racial oppression,
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Introduction
and imperial subjection on the one hand, and the poetry, fiction, philosophy
of the society that engages in these practices on the other. One of the difficult
truths I discovered in working on this book is how very few of the British
or French artists whom I admire took issue with the notion of “subject" or
“inferior” races so prevalent among officials who practiced those ideas as a
matter of course in ruling India or Algeria. They were widely accepted
notions, and they helped fuel the imperial acquisition of territories in Africa
throughout the nineteenth century. In thinking of Carlyle or Ruskin, or even
of Dickens and Thackeray, critics have often, I believe, relegated these
writers’ ideas about colonial expansion, inferior races, or “niggers” to a very
different department from that of culture, culture being the elevated area of
activity in which they “truly” belong and in which they did their “really”
important work.
Culture conceived in this way can become a protective enclosure: check
your politics at the door before you enter it. As someone who has spent his
entire professional life teaching literature, yet who also grew up in the
pre-World War Two colonial world, I have found it a challenge not to see
culture in this way — that is, antiseptic ally quarantined from its worldly
affiliations — but as an extraordinarily varied field of endeavor. The novels
and other books I consider here I analyze because first of all I find them
estimable and admirable works of art and learning, in which l and many
other readers take pleasure and from which we derive profit. Second, the
challenge is to connect them not only with that pleasure and profit but also
with the imperial process of which they were manifestly and unconcealedly
a pan; rather than condemning or ignoring their participation in what was
an unquestioned reality in their societies, I suggest that what we learn about
this hitherto ignored aspect actually and truly enhances our reading and
understanding of them.
Let me say a little here about what I have in mind, using two well-known
and very great novels. Dickens’s Great Expectations (1861) is primarily a novel
about self-delusion, about Pip’s vain attempts to become a gentleman with
neither the hard work nor the aristocratic source of income required for such
a role. Early in life he helps a condemned convict, Abel Magwitch, who, after
being transported to Australia, pays back his young benefactor with large
sums of money; because the lawyer involved says nothing as he disburses the
money, Pip persuades himself that an elderly gentlewoman, Miss Havisham,
has been his patron. Magwitch then reappears illegally in London, unwel-
comed by Pip because everything about the man reeks of delinquency and
unpleasantness. In the end, though, Pip is reconciled to Magwitch and to his
reality: he finally acknowledges Magwitch — hunted, apprehended, and fa-
tally ill — as his surrogate father, not as someone to be denied or rejected,
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xv
though Mag-witch is in fact unacceptable, being from Australia, a penal
colony designed for the rehabilitation but not the repatriation of transported
English criminals.
Most, if not all, readings of this remarkable work situate it squarely within
the metropolitan history of British fiction, whereas I believe that it belongs
in a history both more inclusive and more dynamic than such interpretations
allow. It has been left to two more recent books than Dickens’s — Robert
Hughes’s magisterial The Fatal Shore a nd Paul Carter’s brilliantly speculative
The Road to Botany Bay — to reveal a vast history of speculation about and
experience of Australia, a “white” colony like Ireland, in which we can
locate Magwitch and Dickens not as mere coincidental references in that
history, but as participants in it, through the novel and through a much older
and wider experience between England and its overseas territories.
Australia was established as a penal colony in the late eighteenth century
mainly so that England could transport an irredeemable, unwanted excess
population of felons to a place, originally charted by Captain Cook, that
would also function as a colony replacing those lost in America. The pursuit
of profit, the building of empire, and what Hughes calls social apartheid
together produced modern Australia, which by the time Dickens first took
an interest in it during the 1840s (in David Copperfield Wilkins Micawber
happily immigrates there) had progressed somewhat into profitability and a
son of “free system” where laborers could do well on their own if allowed
to do so. Yet in Magwitch
Dickens knotted several strands in the English perception of convicts
in Australia at the end of transportation. They could succeed, but they
could hardly, in the real sense, return. They could expiate their crimes
in a technical, legal sense, but what they suffered there warped them
into permanent outsiders. And yet they were capable of redemption —
as long as they stayed in Australia. 1
Carter’s exploration of what he calls Australia’s spatial history offers us
another version of that same experience. Here explorers, convicts, ethnogra-
phers, profiteers, soldiers chart the vast and relatively empty continent each
in a discourse that jostles, displaces, or incorporates the others. Botany Bay
is therefore first of all an Enlightenment discourse of travel and discovery,
then a set of travelling narrators (including Cook) whose words, charts, and
intentions accumulate the strange territories and gradually turn them into
“home." The adjacence between the Benthamite organization of space
(which produced the city of Melbourne) and the apparent disorder of the
Australian bush is shown by Carter to have become an optimistic transfor-
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Introduction
mation of social space, which produced an Elysium for gentlemen, an Eden
for laborers in the 1840s. 2 What Dickens envisions for Pip, being Magwitch’s
“London gentleman,” is roughly equivalent to what was envisioned by
English benevolence for Australia, one social space authorizing another.
But Great Expectations was not written with anything like the concern for
native Australian accounts that Hughes or Carter has, nor did it presume or
forecast a tradition of Australian writing, which in fact came later to include
the literary works of David Malouf, Peter Carey, and Patrick White. The
prohibition placed on Magwitch’s return is not only penal but imperial:
subjects can be taken to places like Australia, but they cannot be allowed a
“return” to metropolitan space, which, as all Dickens’s fiction testifies, is
meticulously charted, spoken for, inhabited by a hierarchy of metropolitan
personages. So on the one hand, interpreters like Hughes and Carter expand
on the relatively attenuated presence of Australia in nineteenth-century
British writing, expressing the fullness and earned integrity of an Australian
history that became independent from Britain’s in the twentieth century,
yet, on the other, an accurate reading of Great Expectations must note that
after Magwitch’s delinquency is expiated, so to speak, after Pip redemp-
tively acknowledges his debt to the old, bitterly energized, and vengeful
convict, Pip himself collapses and is revived in two explicitly positive ways.
A new Pip appears, less laden than the old Pip with the chains of the
past — he is glimpsed in the form of a child, also called Pip; and the old Pip
takes on a new career with his boyhood friend Herbert Pocket, this time not
as an idle gentleman but as a hardworking trader in the East, where Britain’s
other colonies offer a sort of normality that Australia never could.
Thus even as Dickens setdes the difficulty with Australia, another struc-
ture of attitude and reference emerges to suggest Britain’s imperial inter-
course through trade and travel with the Orient In his new career as colonial
businessman, Pip is hardly an exceptional figure, since nearly all of Dickens’s
businessmen, wayward relatives, and frightening outsiders have a fairly
normal and secure connection with the empire. But it is only in recent years
that these connections have taken on interpretative importance. A new
generation of scholars and critics — the children of decolonization in some
instances, the beneficiaries (like sexual, religious, and racial minorities) of
advances in human freedom at home — have seen in such great texts of
Western literature a standing interest in what was considered a lesser world,
populated with lesser people of color, portrayed as open to the intervention
of so many Robinson Crusoes.
By the end of the nineteenth century the empire is no longer merely a
shadowy presence, or embodied merely in the unwelcome appearance of a
fugitive convict but, in the works of writers like Conrad, Kipling, Gide, and
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xvn
Loti, a central area of concern. Conrad’s Nostromo (1904) — my second exam-
ple — is set in a Central American republic, independent (unlike the African
and East Asian colonial settings of his earlier fictions), and dominated at the
same time by outside interests because of its immense silver mine. For a
contemporary American the most compelling aspect of the work is Conrad’s
prescience: he forecasts the unstoppable unrest and “misrule” of the Latin
American republics (governing them, he says, quoting Bolivar, is like plow-
ing the sea), and he singles out North America’s particular way of influenc-
ing conditions in a decisive yet barely visible way. Holroyd, the San
Francisco financier who backs Charles Gould, the British owner of the San
Tom6 mine, warns his protege that “we won’t be drawn into any large
trouble” as investors. Nevertheless,
We can sit and watch. Of course, some day we shall step in. We are
bound to. But there’s no hurry. Time itself has got to wait on the
greatest country in the whole of God’s universe. We shall be giving the
word for everything — industry, trade, law, journalism, art, politics, and
religion, from Cape Horn clear over to Surith’s Sound, and beyond it,
too, if anything worth taking hold of turns up at the North Pole. And
then we shall have the leisure to take in hand the oudying islands and
continents of the earth. We shall run the world’s business whether the
world likes it or not. The world can’t help it — and neither can wb, I
guess. 3
Much of the rhetoric of the “New World Order” promulgated by the
American government since the end of the Cold War — with its redolent
self-congratulation, its unconcealed triumphalism, its grave proclamations of
responsibility — might have been scripted by Conrad’s Holroyd: we are
number one, we are bound to lead, we stand for freedom and order, and so
on. No American has been immune from this structure of feeling, and yet
the implicit warning contained in Conrad’s portraits of Holroyd and Gould
is rarely reflected on since the rhetoric of power all too easily produces an
illusion of benevolence when deployed in an imperial setting. Yet it is a
rhetoric whose most damning characteristic is that it has been used before,
not just once (by Spain and Portugal) but with deafeningly repetitive fre-
quency in the modem period, by the British, the French, the Belgians, the
Japanese, the Russians, and now the Americans.
Yet it would be incomplete to read Conrad’s great work simply as an early
prediction of what we see happening in twentieth-century Latin America,
with its string of United Fruit Companies, colonels, liberation forces, and
American-financed mercenaries. Conrad is the precursor of the Western
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Introduction
views of the Third World which one finds in the work of novelists as
different as Graham Greene, V. S. Naipaul, and Robert Stone, of theoreti-
cians of imperialism like Hannah Arendt, and of travel writers, filmmakers,
and polemicists whose specialty is to deliver the non-European world either
for analysis and judgement or for satisfying the exotic tastes of European and
North American audiences. For if it is true that Conrad ironically sees the
imperialism of the San Tom6 silver mine’s British and American owners as
doomed by its own pretentious and impossible ambitions, it is also true that
he writes as a man whose Western view of the non-Western world is so
ingrained as to blind him to other histories, other cultures, other aspirations.
All Conrad can see is a world totally dominated by the Atlantic West, in
which every opposition to the West only confirms the West’s wicked power.
What Conrad cannot see is an alternative to this cruel tautology. He could
neither understand that India, Africa, and South America also had lives and
cultures with integrities not totally controlled by the gringo imperialists and
reformers of this world, nor allow himself to believe that anti-imperialist
independence movements were not all corrupt and in the pay of the puppet
masters in London or Washington.
These crucial limitations in vision are as much a part of Nostromo as its
characters and plot Conrad’s novel embodies the same paternalistic arro-
gance of imperialism that it mocks in characters like Gould and Holroyd.
Conrad seems to be saying, “We Westerners will decide who is a good
native or a bad, because all natives have sufficient existence by virtue of our
recognition. We created them, we taught them to speak and think, and when
they rebel they simply confirm our views of them as silly children, duped
by some of their Western masters.” This is in effect what Americans have
felt about their southern neighbors: that independence is to be wished for
them so long as it is the kind of independence we approve of. Anything else
is unacceptable and, worse, unthinkable.
It is no paradox, therefore, that Conrad was both anti-imperialist and
imperialist, progressive when it came to rendering fearlessly and pessimisti-
cally the self-confirming, self-deluding corruption of overseas domination,
deeply reactionary when it came to conceding that Africa or South America
could ever have had an independent history or culture, which the imperial-
ists violently disturbed but by which they were ultimately defeated. Yet lest
we think patronizingly of Conrad as the creature of his own time, we had
better note that recent attitudes in Washington and among most Western
policymakers and intellectuals show little advance over his views. What
Conrad discerned as the futility latent in imperialist philanthropy — whose
intentions include such ideas as “making the world safe for democracy” —
the United States government is still unable to perceive, as it tries to
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xix
implement its wishes all over the globe, especially in the Middle East. At
least Conrad had the courage to see that no such schemes ever succeed —
because they trap the planners in more illusions of omnipotence and mis-
leading self-satisfaction (as in Vietnam), and because by their very nature
they falsify the evidence.
All this is worth bearing in mind if Nostromo is to be read with some
attention to its massive strengths and inherent limitations. The newly inde-
pendent state of Sulaco that emerges at the end of the novel is only a smaller,
more tightly controlled and intolerant version of the larger state from which
it has seceded and has now come to displace in wealth and importance.
Conrad allows the reader to see that imperialism is a system. Life in one
subordinate realm of experience is imprinted by the fictions and follies of the
dominant realm. But the reverse is true, too, as experience in the dominant
society comes to depend uncritically on natives and their territories per-
ceived as in need of la mission civilisatrice.
However it is read, Nostromo offers a profoundly unforgiving view, and it
has quite literally enabled the equally severe view of Western imperialist
illusions in Graham Greene’s The Quiet American or V. S. Naipaul’s A Bend
in the River, novels with very different agendas. Few readers today, after
Vietnam, Iran, the Philippines, Algeria, Cuba, Nicaragua, Iraq, would dis-
agree that it is precisely the fervent innocence of Greene’s Pyle or Naipaul’s
Father Huismans, men for whom the native can be educated into “our”
civilization, that turns out to produce the murder, subversion, and endless
instability of “primitive" societies. A similar anger pervades films like Oliver
Stone’s Salvador , Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now, and Constantin
Costa-Gavras’s Missing, in which unscrupulous CIA operatives and power-
mad officers manipulate natives and well-intentioned Americans alike.
Yet all these works, which are so indebted to Conrad’s anti-imperialist
irony in Nostromo , argue that the source of the world’s significant action and
life is in the West, whose representatives seem at liberty to visit their
fantasies and philanthropies upon a mind-deadened Third World. In this
view, the outlying regions of the world have no life, history, or culture to
speak of, no independence or integrity worth representing without the West.
And when there is something to be described it is, following Conrad, unut-
terably corrupt, degenerate, irredeemable. But whereas Conrad wrote Nos-
tromo during a period of Europe’s largely uncontested imperialist
enthusiasm, contemporary novelists and filmmakers who have learned his
ironies so well have done their work after decolonization, after the massive
intellectual, moral, and imaginative overhaul and deconstruction of Western
representation of the non- Western world, after the work of Frantz Fanon,
Amilcar Cabral, C.L.R. James, Walter Rodney, after the novels and plays of
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Introduction
Chinua Achebe, Ngugi wa Thiongo, Wole Soyinka, Salman Rushdie, Ga-
briel Garcia Marquez, and many others.
Thus Conrad has passed along his residual imperialist propensities, al-
though his heirs scarcely have an excuse to justify the often subtle and
unreflecting bias of their work. This is not just a matter of Westerners who
do not have enough sympathy for or comprehension of foreign cultures —
since there are, after all, some artists and intellectuals who have, in effect,
crossed to the other side — -Jean Genet, Basil Davidson, Albert Memmi, Juan
Goytisolo, and others. What is perhaps more relevant is the political willing-
ness to take seriously the alternatives to imperialism, among them the
existence of other cultures and societies. Whether one believes that Conrad’s
extraordinary fiction confirms habitual Western suspicions about Latin
America, Africa, and Asia, or whether one sees in novels like Nostmmo and
Great Expectations the lineaments of an astonishingly durable imperial world-
view, capable of warping the perspectives of reader and author equally: both
those ways of reading the real alternatives seem outdated. The world today
does not exist as a spectacle about which we can be either pessimistic or
optimistic, about which our “texts” can be either ingenious or boring. All
such attitudes involve the deployment of power and interests. To the extent
that we see Conrad both criticizing and reproducing the imperial ideology
of his time, to that extent we can characterize our own present attitudes:
the projection, or the refusal, of the wish to dominate, the capacity to damn,
or the energy to comprehend and engage with other societies, traditions,
histories.
The world has changed since Conrad and Dickens in ways that have
surprised, and often alarmed, metropolitan Europeans and Americans, who
now confront large non-white immigrant populations in their midst, and
face an impressive roster of newly empowered voices asking for their narra-
tives to be heard. The point of my book is that such populations and voices
have been there for some time, thanks to the globalized process set in motion
by modem imperialism; to ignore or otherwise discount the overlapping
experience of Westerners and Orientals, the interdependence of cultural
terrains in which colonizer and colonized co-existed and battled each other
through projections as well as rival geographies, narratives, and histories, is
to miss what is essential about the world in the past century.
For the first time, the history of imperialism and its culture can now be
studied as neither monolithic nor reductively compartmentalized, separate,
distinct True, there has been a disturbing eruption of separatist and chau-
vinist discourse, whether in India, Lebanon, or Yugoslavia, or in Afrocentric,
Fslamocentric, or Eurocentric proclamations; far from invalidating the strug-
gle to be free from empire, these reductions of cultural discourse actually
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xxi
prove the validity of a fundamental liberationist energy that animates the
wish to be independent, to speak freely and without the burden of unfair
domination. The only way to understand this energy, however, is histori-
cally: and hence the rather wide geographical and historical range attempted
in this book. In our wish to make ourselves heard, we tend very often to
forget that the world is a crowded place, and that if everyone were to insist
on the radical purity or priority of one’s own voice, all we would have would
be the awful din of unending strife, and a bloody political mess, the true
horror of which is beginning to be perceptible here and there in the re-
emergence of racist politics in Europe, the cacophony of debates over
political correctness and identity politics in the United States, and — to speak
about my own part of the world — the intolerance of religious prejudice and
illusionary promises of Bismarckian despotism, a la Saddam Hussein and his
numerous Arab epigones and counterparts.
What a sobering and inspiring thing it is therefore not just to read one’s
own side, as it were, but also to grasp how a great artist like Kipling (few
more imperialist and reactionary than he) rendered India with such skill, and
how in doing so his novel Kim not only depended on a long history of
Anglo-Indian perspective, but also, in spite of itself, forecast the untenability
of that perspective in its insistence on the belief that the Indian reality
required, indeed beseeched British tutelage more or less indefinitely. The
great cultural archive, I argue, is where the intellectual and aesthetic invest-
ments in overseas dominion are made. If you were British or French in the
1860s you saw, and you felt, India and North Africa with a combination of
familiarity and distance, but never with a sense of their separate sovereignty.
In your narratives, histories, travel tales, and explorations your conscious-
ness was represented as the principal authority, an active point of energy
that made sense not just of colonizing activities but of exotic geographies and
peoples. Above all, your sense of power scarcely imagined that those “na-
tives” who appeared either subservient or sullenly uncooperative were ever
going to be capable of finally making you give up India or Algeria. Or of
saying anything that might perhaps contradict, challenge, or otherwise dis-
rupt the prevailing discourse.
Imperialism’s culture was not invisible, nor did it conceal its worldly
affiliations and interests. There is a sufficient clarity in the culture’s major
lines for us to remark the often scrupulous notations recorded there, and also
to remark how they have not been paid much attention. Why they are now
of such interest as, for instance, to spur this and other books derives less
from a kind of retrospective vindictiveness than from a fortified need for
links and connections. One of imperialism’s achievements was to bring the
world closer together, and although in the process the separation between
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XXI 1
Introduction
Europeans and natives was an insidious and fundamentally unjust one,
most of us should now regard the historical experience of empire as a com-
mon one. The task then is to describe it as pertaining to Indians and
Britishers, Algerians and French, Westerners and Africans, Asians, Latin
Americans, and Australians despite the horrors, the bloodshed, and the
vengeful bitterness. >
My method is to focus as much as possible on individual works, to read
them first as great products of the creative or interpretative imagination, and
then to show them as part of the relationship between culture and empire.
I do not believe that authors are mechanically determined by ideology, class,
or economic history, but authors are, I also believe, very much in the history
of their societies, shaping and shaped by that history and their social experi-
ence in different measure. Culture and the aesthetic forms it contains derive
from historical experience, which in effect is one of the main subjects of this
book. As I discovered in writing Orientalism, you cannot grasp historical
experience by lists or catalogues, and no matter how much you provide by
way of coverage, some books, articles, authors, and ideas are going to be left
out. Instead, I have tried to look at what 1 consider to be important and
essential things, conceding in advance that selectivity and conscious choice
have had to rule what I have done. My hope is that readers and critics of this
book will use it to further the lines of inquiry and arguments about the
historical experience of imperialism put forward in it. In discussing and
analyzing what in fact is a global process, I have had to be occasionally both
general and summary; yet no one, I am sure, would wish this book any
longer than it is!
Moreover, there are several empires that I do not discuss: the Austro-
Hungarian, the Russian, the Ottoman, and the Spanish and Portuguese.
These omissions, however, are not at all meant to suggest that Russia’s
domination of Central Asia and Eastern Europe, Istanbul’s rule over the
Arab world, Portugal’s over what are today’s Angola and Mozambique, and
Spain’s domination in both the Pacific and Latin America have been either
benign (and hence approved of) or any less imperialist. What I am saying
about the British, French, and American imperial experience is that it has
a unique coherence and a special cultural centrality. England of course is in
an imperial class by itself, bigger, grander, more imposing than any other;
for almost two centuries France was in direct competition with it Since
narrative plays such a remarkable part in the imperial quest, it is therefore
not surprising that France and (especially) England have an unbroken tradi-
tion of novel-writing, unparalleled elsewhere. America began as an empire
during the nineteenth century, but it was in the second half of the twentieth,
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Introduction
xxiii
after the decolonization of the British and French empires, that it directly
followed its two great predecessors.
There are two additional reasons for focussing as I do on these three. One
is that the idea of overseas rule — jumping beyond adjacent territories to very
distant lands — has a privileged status in these three cultures. This idea has
a lot to do with projections, whether in fiction or geography or art, and it
acquires a continuous presence through actual expansion, administration,
investment, and commitment. There is something systematic about imperial
culture therefore that is not as evident in any other empire as it is in Britain’s
or France’s and, in a different way, the United States’, When ] use the phrase
“a structure of attitude and reference,” this is what 1 have in mind. Second
is that these countries are the three in whose orbits I was born, grew up, and
now live. Although I feel at home in them, 1 have remained, as a native from
the Arab and Muslim world, someone who also belongs to the other side.
This has enabled me in a sense to live on both sides, and to try to mediate
between them.
In fine, this is a book about the past and the present, about “us” and
“them,” as each of these things is seen by the various, and usually opposed
and separated, parties. Its moment, so to speak, is that of the period after the
Cold War, when the United States has emerged as the last superpower. To
live there during such a time means, for an educator and intellectual with
a background in the Arab world, a number of quite particular concerns, all
of which have inflected this book, as indeed they have influenced everything
I have written since Orientalism.
First is a depressing sense that one has seen and read about current
American policy formuladons before. Each great metropolitan center that
aspired to global dominance has said, and alas done, many of the same things.
There is always the appeal to power and nadonal interest in running the
affairs of lesser peoples; there is the same destructive zeal when the going
gets a little rough, or when natives rise up and reject a compliant and
unpopular ruler who was ensnared and kept in place by the imperial power;
there is the horrifically predictable disclaimer that “we” are exceptional, not
imperial, not about to repeat the mistake of earlier powers, a disclaimer that
has been routinely followed by making the mistake, as witness the Vietnam
and Gulf wars. Worse yet has been the amazing, if often passive, collabora-
tion with these practices on the part of intellectuals, artists, journalists whose
positions at home are progressive and full of admirable sentiments, but the
opposite when it comes to what is done abroad in their name.
It is my (perhaps illusory) hope that a history of the imperial adventure
rendered in cultural terms might therefore serve some illustrative and even
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XXIV
Introduction
deterrent purpose. Yet though imperialism implacably advanced during the
nineteenth and twentieth centuries, resistance to it also advanced. Methodo-
logically then I try to show the two forces together. This by no means
exempts the aggrieved colonized peoples from criticism; as any survey of
post-colonial states will reveal, the fortunes and misfortunes of nationalism,
of what can be called separatism and nativism, do not always make up a
flattering story. It too must be told, if only to show that there have always
been alternatives to Idi Amin and Saddam Hussein. Western imperialism
and Third World nationalism feed off each other, but even at their worst
they are neither monolithic nor deterministic. Besides, culture is not mono-
lithic either, and is not the exclusive property of East or West, nor of small
groups of men or women.
Nonetheless the story is a gloomy and often discouraging one. What
tempers it today is, here and there, the emergence of a new intellectual and
political conscience. This is the second concern that went into the making
of this book. However much there are laments that the old course of
humanistic study has been subject to politicized pressures, to what has been
called the culture of complaint, to all sorts of egregiously overstated claims
on behalf of “Western” or “feminist” or “Afrocentric” and “Islamocentric”
values, that is not all there is today. Take as an example the extraordinary
change in studies of the Middle East, which when I wrote Orientalism were
still dominated by an aggressively masculine and condescending ethos. To
mention only works that have appeared in the last three or four years — Lila
Abu-Lughod’s Veiled Sentiments, Leila Ahmed’s Women and Gender in Islam,
Fedwa Malti-Douglas’s Woman's Body, Woman’s World 4 — a very different sort
of idea about Islam, the Arabs, and the Middle East has challenged, and to
a considerable degree undermined, the old despotism. Such works are femi-
nist, but not exclusivist; they demonstrate the diversity and complexity of
experience that works beneath the totalizing discourses of Orientalism and
of Middle East (overwhelmingly male) nationalism; they are both intellectu-
ally and politically sophisticated, attuned to the best theoretical and histori-
cal scholarship, engaged but not demagogic, sensitive to but not maudlin
about women’s experience; finally, while written by scholars of different
backgrounds and education, they are works that are in dialogue with, and
contribute to, the political situation of women in the Middle East.
Along with Sara Suleri’s The Rhetoric of English India and Lisa Lowe’s
Critical Terrains , s revisionist scholarship of this sort has varied, if it has not
altogether broken up the geography of the Middle East and India as homog-
enous, reductively understood domains. Gone are the binary oppositions
dear to the nationalist and imperialist enterprise. Instead we begin to sense
that old authority cannot simply be replaced by new authority, but that new
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xxv
alignments made across borders, types, nations, and essences ace rapidly
coming into view, and it is those new alignments that now provoke and
challenge the fundamentally static notion of identity that has been the core
of cultural thought during the era of imperialism. Throughout the exchange
between Europeans and their “others” that began systematically half a
millennium ago, the one idea that has scarcely varied is that there is an “us”
and a “them,” each quite settled, clear, unassailably self-evident. As I discuss
it in Orientalism, the division goes back to Greek thought about barbarians,
but, whoever originated this kind of “identity” thought, by the nineteenth
century it had become the hallmark of imperialist cultures as well as those
cultures trying to resist the encroachments of Europe.
We are still the inheritors of that style by which one is defined by the
nation, which in turn derives its authority from a supposedly unbroken
tradition. In the United States this concern over cultural identity has of
course yielded up the contest over what books and authorities constitute
“our” tradition. In the main, trying to say that this or that book is (or is not)
part of “our” tradition is one of the most debilitating exercises imaginable.
Besides, its excesses are much more frequent than its contributions to histor-
ical accuracy. For the record then, I have no patience with the position that
“we” should only or mainly be concerned with what is “ours,” any more than
I can condone reactions to such a view that require Arabs to read Arab books,
use Arab methods, and the like. As C.L.R. James used to say, Beethoven
belongs as much to West Indians as he does to Germans, since his music is
now part of the human heritage.
Yet the ideological concern over identity is understandably entangled
with the interests and agendas of various groups — not all of them oppressed
minorities — that wish to set priorities reflecting these interests. Since a great
deal of this book is all about what to read of recent history and how to read
it, I shall only quickly summarize my ideas here. Before we can agree on
what the American identity is made of, we have to concede that as an
immigrant settler society superimposed on the ruins of considerable native
presence, American identity is too varied to be a unitary and homogenous
thing; indeed the battle within it is between advocates of a unitary identity
and those who see the whole as a complex but not reductively unified one.
This opposition implies two different perspectives, two historiographies, one
linear and subsuming, the other contrapuntal and often nomadic.
My argument is that only the second perspective is fully sensitive to the
reality of historical experience. Partly because of empire, all cultures are
involved in one another; none is single and pure, all are hybrid, heteroge-
nous, extraordinarily differentiated, and unmonolithic. This, I believe, is as
true of the contemporary United States as it is of the modern Arab world,
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XXVI
Introduction
where in each instance respectively so much has been made of the dangers
of “un-Americanism” and the threats to “Arabism.” Defensive, reactive, and
even paranoid nationalism is, alas, frequently woven into the very fabric of
education, where children as well as older students are taught to venerate
and celebrate the uniqueness of their tradition (usually and invidiously at the
expense of others). It is to such uncritical and unthinking forms of education
and thought that this book is addressed — as a corrective, as a patient alterna-
tive, as a frankly exploratory possibility. In its writing I have availed myself
of the utopian space still provided by the university, which I believe must
remain a place where such vital issues are investigated, discussed, reflected
on. For it to become a site where social and political issues are actually either
imposed or resolved would be to remove the university’s function and turn
it into an adjunct to whatever political party is in power.
I do not wish to be misunderstood. Despite its extraordinary cultural
diversity, the United States is, and will surely remain, a coherent nation. The
same is true of other English-speaking countries (Britain, New Zealand,
Australia, Canada) and even of France, which now contains large groups of
immigrants. Much of the polemical divisiveness and polarized debate that
Arthur Schlesinger speaks of as hurting the study of history in The Disuniting
of America is there of course, but it does not, in my opinion, portend a
dissolution of the republic . 6 On the whole it is better to explore history
rather than to repress or deny it; the fact that the United States contains so
many histories, many of them now clamoring for attention, is by no means
to be suddenly feared since many of them were always there, and out of
them an American society and politics (and even a style of historical writing)
were in fact created. In other words, the result of present debates over
multiculturalism is hardly likely to be “Lebanonization,” and if these debates
point a way for political changes and changes in the way women, minorities,
and recent immigrants see themselves, then that is not to be feared or
defended against. What does need to be remembered is that narratives of
emancipation and enlightenment in their strongest form were also narratives
of integration not separation, the stories of people who had been excluded
from the main group but who were now fighting for a place in it. And if the
old and habitual ideas of the main group were not flexible or generous
enough to admit new groups, then these ideas need changing, a far better
thing to do than reject the emerging groups.
The last point I want to make is that this book is an exile’s book. For
objective reasons that I had no control over, I grew up as an Arab with a
Western education. Ever since I can remember, I have felt that I belonged
to both worlds, without being completely of either one or the other. During
my lifetime, however, the parts of the Arab world that I was most attached
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XXVll
to either have been changed utterly by civil upheavals and war, or have
simply ceased to exist. And for long periods of time I have been an outsider
in the United States, particularly when it went to war against, and was
deeply opposed to, the (far from perfect) cultures and societies of the Arab
world. Yet when I say “exile” I do not mean something sad or deprived. On
the contrary belonging, as it were, to both sides of the imperial divide
enables you to understand them more easily. Moreover New York, where
the whole of this book was written, is in so many ways the exilic city par
excellence; it also contains within itself the Manichean structure of the colo-
nial city described by Fanon. Perhaps all this has stimulated the kinds of
interests and interpretations ventured here, but these circumstances cer-
tainly made it possible for me to feel as if I belonged to more than one
history and more than one group. As to whether such a state can be regarded
as really a salutary alternative to the normal sense of belonging to only one
culture and feeling a sense of loyalty to only one nation, the reader must
now decide.
The argument of this book was first presented in various lecture series given
at universities in the United Kingdom, the United States, and Canada from
1985 to 1988. For these extended opportunities, I am greatly indebted to
faculty and students at the University of Kent, Cornell University, the
University of Western Ontario, the University of Toronto, the University of
Essex, and, in a considerably earlier version of the argument, the University
of Chicago. Later versions of individual sections of this book were also
delivered as lectures at the Yeats International School at Sligo, Oxford
University (as the George Antonius Lecture at St Antony’s College), the
University of Minnesota, King’s College of Cambridge University, the
Princeton University Davis Center, Birkbeck College of London University,
and the University of Puerto Rico. My gratitude to Declan Kiberd, Seamus
Deane, Derek Hopwood, Peter Nesselroth, Tony Tanner, Natalie Davis and
Gayan Prakash, A. Walton Litz, Peter Hulme, Deirdre David, Ken Bates,
Tessa Blackstone, Bernard Sharrett, Lyn Innis, Peter Mulford, Gervasio
Luis Garcia, and Maria de los Angeles Castro for the favor of inviting, and
then hosting, me is warm and sincere. In 1989 I was honored when I was
asked to give the first Raymond Williams Memorial Lecture in London; I
spoke about Camus on that occasion, and thanks to Graham Martin and the
latejoy Williams, it was a memorable experience for me. I need hardly say
that many parts of this book are suffused with the ideas and the human and
moral example of Raymond Williams, a good friend and a great critic
I shamelessly availed myself of various intellectual, political, and cultural
associations as I worked on this book. Those include close personal friends
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xxvm
Introduction
who are also editors of journals in which some of these pages first appeared:
Tom Mitchell (of Critical Inquiry ), Richard Poirier (of Raritan Review), Ben
Sonnenberg (of Grand Street ), A Sivanandan (of Race and Class), JoAnn
Wypijewski (of The Nation), and Karl Miller (of The London Review of Books).
I am also grateful to editors of The Guardian (London) and to Paul Keegan
of Penguin under whose auspices some of the ideas in this book were first
expressed. Other friends on whose indulgence, hospitality, and criticisms 1
depended were Donald Mitchell, Ibrahim Abu-Lughod, Masao Miyoshi,
Jean Franco, Marianne McDonald, Anwar Abdel-Malek, Eqbal Ahmad,
Jonathan Culler, Gayatri Spivak, Homi Bhabha, Benita Parry, and Barbara
Harlow. It gives me particular pleasure to acknowledge the brilliance and
perspicacity of several students of mine at Columbia University, for whom
any teacher would have been grateful. These young scholars and critics gave
me the full benefit of their exciting work, which is now both well published
and well known: Anne McClintock, Rob Nixon, Suvendi Perera, Gauri
Viswanathan, and Tim Brennan.
In the preparation of the manuscript, I have been very ably helped in
different ways by Yumna Siddiqi, Aamir Mufti, Susan Lhota, David Beams,
Paola di Robilant, Deborah Poole, Ana Dopico, Pierre Gagnier, and Kieran
Kennedy. Zaineb Istrabadi performed the difficult task of deciphering my
appalling handwriting and then putting it into successive drafts with admira-
ble patience and skill. I am very indebted to her for unstinting support, good
humor, and intelligence. At various stages of editorial preparation Frances
Coady and Carmen Callil were helpful readers and good friends of what I
was trying to present here. I must also record my deep gratitude and almost
thunderstruck admiration for Elisabeth Sifton: friend of many years, superb
editor, exacting and always sympathetic critic. George Andreou was unfail-
ingly helpful in getting things right as the book moved through the publish-
ing process. To Mariam, Wadie, and Najla Said, who lived with the author
of this book in often trying circumstances, heartfelt thanks for their constant
love and support.
New York, New York
July 1992
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CULTURE
AND
IMPERIALISM
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CHAPTER ONE
OVERLAPPING
TERRITORIES,
INTERTWINED
HISTORIES
Silence from and about the subject was the order of the day. Some of the silences
were broken, and some were maintained by authors who lived with and within
the policing strategies. What I am interested in are the strategies for break-
ing it.
Toni Morrison, Playing in the Dark
History, in other words, is not a calculating machine. It unfolds in the mind and
the imagination, and it takes body in the multifarious responses of a people’s
culture, itself the infinitely subtle mediation of material realities, of underpin-
ning economic fact, of gritty objectivities.
Basil Davidson, Africa in Modem History
( I )
Empire, Geography, and Culture
A ppeals to the past are among the commonest of strategies in interpreta-
tions of the present. What animates such appeals is not only disagree-
. ment about what happened in the past and .what the past was, but
uncertainty about whether the past really is past, over and concluded, or
whether it continues, albeit in different forms, perhaps. This problem ani-
mates all sorts of discussions — about influence, about blame and judgement,
about present actualities and future priorities.
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4
OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
In one of his most famous early critical essays, T. S. Eliot takes up a
similar constellation of issues, and although the occasion as well as the
intention of his essay is almost purely aesthetic, one can use his formulations
to inform other realms of experience. The poet, Eliot says, is obviously
an individual talent, but he works within a tradition that cannot be
merely inherited but can only be obtained “by great labour.” Tradition, he
continues,
involves, in the first place, the historical sense, which we may call
nearly indispensable to anyone who would continue to be a poet
beyond his twenty-fifth year; and the historical sense involves a percep-
tion, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence; the
historical sense compels a man to write not merely with his own
generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the whole of the
literature of Europe from Homer and within it the whole of the litera-
ture of his own country has a simultaneous existence and composes a
simultaneous order. This historical sense, which is a sense of the time-
less as well as of the temporal and of the timeless and of the temporal
together, is what makes a writer traditional. And it is at the same time
what makes a writer most acutely conscious of his place in time, of his
own contemporaneity.
No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. 1
The force of these comments is directed equally, I think, at poets who
think critically and at critics whose work aims at a close appreciation of the
poetic process. The main idea is that even as we must fully comprehend the
pastness of the past, there is no just way in which the past can be quarantined
from the present. Past and present inform each other, each implies the other
and, in the totally ideal sense intended by Eliot, each co-exists with the
other. What Eliot proposes, in short, is a vision of literary tradition that,
while it respects temporal succession, is not wholly commanded by it.
Neither past nor present, any more than any poet or artist, has a complete
meaning alone.
Eliot’s synthesis of past, present, and future, however, is idealistic and in
important ways a function of his own peculiar history; 2 also, its conception
of time leaves out the combativeness with which individuals and institutions
decide on what is tradition and what is not, what relevant and what not. But
his central idea is valid: how we formulate or represent the past shapes our
understanding and views of the present. Let me give an example. During the
Gulf War of 1990-91. the collision between Iraq and the United States was
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Empire, Geography, and Culture
5
a function of two fundamentally opposed histories, each used to advantage
by the official establishment of each country. As construed by the Iraqi Baath
Party, modem Arab history shows the unrealized, unfulfilled promise of
Arab independence, a promise traduced both by “the West” and by a whole
array of more recent enemies, like Arab reaction and Zionism. Iraq’s bloody
occupation of Kuwait was, therefore, justified not only on Bismarckian
grounds, but also because it was believed that the Arabs had to right the
wrongs done against them and wrest from imperialism one of its greatest
prizes. Conversely, in the American view of the past, the United States was
not a classical imperial power, but a righter of wrongs around the world, in
pursuit of tyranny, in defense of freedom no matter the place or cost. The
war inevitably pitted these versions of the past against each other.
Eliot’s ideas about the complexity of the relationship between past and
present are particularly suggestive in the debate over the meaning of “impe-
rialism," a word and an idea today so controversial, so fraught with all sorts
of questions, doubts, polemics, and ideological premises as nearly to resist
use altogether. To some extent of course the debate involves definitions and
attempts at delimitations of the very notion itself: was imperialism princi-
pally economic, how far did it extend, what were its causes, was it system-
atic, when (or whether) did it end? The roll call of names who have
contributed to the discussion in Europe and America is impressive: Kautsky,
Hilferding, Luxemburg, Hobson, Lenin, Schumpeter, Arendt, Magdoff, Paul
Kennedy. And in recent years such works published in the United States as
Paul, Kennedy’s The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers, the revisionist history
of William Appleman Williams, Gabriel Kolko, Noam Chomsky, Howard
Zinn, and Walter Lefeber, and studious defenses or explanations of Ameri-
can policy as non-imperialist written by various strategists, theoreticians,
and sages — all this has kept the question of imperialism, and its applicability
(or not) to the United States, the main power of the day, very much alive.
These authorities debated largely political and economic questions. Yet
scarcely any attention has been paid to what I believe is the privileged role
of culture in the modern imperial experience, and little notice taken of the
fact that the extraordinary global reach of classical nineteenth- and early-
twentieth-century European imperialism still casts a considerable shadow
over our own times. Hardly any North American, African, European, Latin
American, Indian, Caribbean, Australian individual — the list is very long —
who is alive today has not been touched by the empires of the past. Britain
and France between them controlled immense territories: Canada, Australia,
New Zealand, the colonies in North and South America and the Caribbean,
large swatches of Africa, the Middle East, the Far East (Britain will hold
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6
OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
Hong Kong as a colony until 1997), and the Indian subcontinent in its
entirety — all these fell under the sway of and in time were liberated from
British or French rule; in addition, the United States, Russia, and several
lesser European countries, to say nothing of Japan and Turkey, were also
imperial powers for some or all of the nineteenth century. This pattern of
dominions or possessions laid the groundwork for what is in effect now a
fully global world. Electronic communications, the global extent of trade, of
availability of resources, of travel, of information about weather patterns and
ecological change have joined together even the most distant corners of the
world. This set of patterns, I believe, was first established and made possible
by the modern empires.
Now I am temperamentally and philosophically opposed to vast system-
building or to totalistic theories of human history. But I must say that having
studied and indeed lived within the modem empires, I am struck by how
constantly expanding, how inexorably integrative they were. Whether in
Marx, or in conservative works like those by J. R. Seeley, or in modern
analyses like those by D. K. Fieldhouse and C. C. Eldridge (whose England’s
Mission is a central work), 3 one is made to see that the British empire
integrated and fused things within it, and taken together it and other empires
made the world one. Yet no individual, and certainly not I, can see or fully
grasp this whole imperial world.
When we read the debate between contemporary historians Patrick
O’Brien 4 and Davis and Huttenback (whose important book Mammon and the
Pursuit of Empire tries to quantify the actual profitability of imperial activi-
ties), 5 or when we look at earlier debates such as the Robinson-Gallagher
controversy, 6 or at the work of the dependency and world-accumulation
economists Andre Gunder Frank and Samir Amin, 7 as literary and cultural
historians, we are compelled to ask what all this means for interpretations
of the Victorian novel, say, or of French historiography, of Italian grand
opera, of German metaphysics of the same period. We are at a point in our
work when we can no longer ignore empires and the imperial context in our
studies. To speak, as O’Brien does, of “the propaganda for an expanding
empire [which] created illusions of security and false expectations that high
returns would accrue to those who invested beyond its boundaries” 8 is in
effect to speak of an atmosphere created by both empire and novels, by racial
theory and geographical speculation, by the concept of national identity and
urban (or rural) routine. The phrase “false expectations” suggests Great
Expectations, “invested beyond its boundaries” suggests Joseph Sedley and
Becky Sharp, “created illusions,” suggests Illusions perdues — the crossings
over between culture and imperialism are compelling.
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Empire, Geography, and Culture
1
It is difficult to connect these different realms, to show the involvements
of culture with expanding empires, to make observations about art that
preserve its unique endowments and at the same time map its affiliations,
but, I submit, we must attempt this, and set the art in the global, earthly
context. Territory and possessions are at stake, geography and power. Ev-
erything about human history is rooted in the earth, which has meant that
we must think about habitation, but it has also meant that people have
planned to have more territory and therefore must do something about its
indigenous residents. At some very basic level, imperialism means thinking
about, settling on, controlling land that you do not possess, that is distant,
that is lived on and owned by others. For all kinds of reasons it attracts some
people and often involves untold misery for others. Yet it is generally true
that literary historians who study the great sixteenth-century poet Edmund
Spenser, for example, do not connect his bloodthirsty plans for Ireland,
where he imagined a British army virtually exterminating the native inhabi-
tants, with his poetic achievement or with the history of British rule over
Ireland, which continues today.
For the purposes of this book, 1 have maintained a focus on actual contests
over land and the land’s people. What I have tried to do is a kind of
geographical inquiry into historical experience, and I have kept in mind the
idea that the earth is in effect one world, in which empty, uninhabited spaces
virtually do not exist. Just as none of us is outside or beyond geography,
none of us is completely free from the struggle over geography. That
struggle is complex and interesting because it is not only about soldiers and
cannons but also about ideas, about forms, about images and imaginings.
A whole range of people in the so-called Western or metropolitan world,
as well as their counterparts in the Third or formerly colonized world, share
a sense that the era of high or classical imperialism, which came to a climax
in what the historian Eric Hobsbawm has so interestingly described as “the '
age of empire” and more or less formally ended with the dismantling of the
great colonial structures after World War Two, has in one way or another
continued to exert considerable cultural influence in the present. For all
sorts of reasons, they feel a new urgency about understanding the pastness
or not of the past, and this urgency is carried over into perceptions of the
present and the future.
At the center of these perceptions is a fact that few dispute, namely, that
during the nineteenth century unprecedented power — compared with
which the powers of Rome, Spain, Baghdad, or Constantinople in their day
were far less formidable — was concentrated in Britain and France, and later
in other Western countries (the United States, especially). This century
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
climaxed “the rise of the West,” and Western power allowed the imperial
metropolitan centers to acquire and accumulate territory and subjects on a
truly astonishing scale. Consider that in 1800 Western powers claimed jy
percent but actually held approximately 35 percent of the earth’s surface, and
that by 1878 the proportion was 67 percent, a rate of increase of 83,000 square
miles per year. By 1914, the annual rate had risen to an astonishing 240,000
square miles, and Europe held a grand total of roughly 85 percent of the
earth as colonies, protectorates, dependencies, dominions, and common-
wealths. 9 No other associated set of colonies in history was as large, none so
totally dominated, none so unequal in power to the Western metropolis. As
a result, says William McNeill in The Pursuit of Power, “the world was united
into a single interacting whole as never before.” 10 And in Europe itself at the
end of the nineteenth century, scarcely a corner of life was untouched by the
facts of empire; the economies were hungry for overseas markets, raw
materials, cheap labor, and hugely profitable land, and defense and foreign-
policy establishments were more and more committed to the maintenance
of vast tracts of distant territory and large numbers of subjugated peoples.
When the Western powers were not in close, sometimes ruthless competi-
tion with one another for more colonies — all modern empires, says V. G.
Kiernan," imitated one another — they were hard at work settling, survey-
ing, studying, and of course ruling the territories under their jurisdictions.
The American experience, as Richard Van Alstyne makes clear in The
Rising American Empire, was from the beginning founded upon the idea of “an
imperium — a dominion, state or sovereignty that would expand in population
and territory, and increase in strength and power.” 12 There were claims for
North American territory to be made and fought over (with astonishing
success); there were native peoples to be dominated, variously exterminated,
variously dislodged; and then, as the republic increased in age and hemi-
spheric power, there were distant lands to be designated vital to American
interests, to be intervened in and fought over — e.g., the Philippines, the
Caribbean, Central America, the “Barbary Coast,” parts of Europe and the
Middle East, Vietnam, Korea. Curiously, though, so influential has been the
discourse insisting on American specialness, altruism, and opportunity that
“imperialism” as a word or ideology has turned up only rarely and recently
in accounts of United States culture, politics, history. But the connection
between imperial politics and culture is astonishingly direct. American
attitudes to American “greatness,” to hierarchies of race, to the perils of other
revolutions (the American revolution being considered unique and some-
how unrepeatable anywhere else in the world) 10 have remained constant,
have dictated, have obscured, the realities of empire, while apologists for
overseas American interests have insisted on American innocence, doing
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Empire, Geography, and Culture
9
good, fighting for freedom. Graham Greene’s character Pyle, in The Quiet
American, embodies this cultural formation with merciless accuracy.
Yet for citizens of nineteenth-century Britain and France, empire was a
major topic of unembarrassed cultural attention. British India and French
North Africa alone played inestimable roles in the imagination, economy,
political life, and social fabric of British and French society, and if we
mention names like Delacroix, Edmund Burke, Ruskin, Carlyle, James and
John Stuart Mill, Kipling, Balzac, Nerval, Flaubert, or Conrad, we shall be
mapping a tiny corner of a far vaster reality than even their immense
collective talents cover. There were scholars, administrators, travellers, trad-
ers, parliamentarians, merchants, novelists, theorists, speculators, adventur-
ers, visionaries, poets, and every variety'of outcast and misfit in the outlying
possessions of these two imperial powers, each of whom contributed to the
formation of a colonial actuality existing at the heart of metropolitan life.
As I shall be using the term, “imperialism” means the practice, the theory,
and the attitudes of a dominating metropolitan center ruling a distant terri-
tory; “colonialism,” which is almost always a consequence of imperialism,
is the implanting of settlements on distant territory. As Michael Doyle
puts it: “Empire is a relationship, formal or informal, in which one state con-
trols the effective political sovereignty of another political society. It can
be achieved by force, by political collaboration, by economic, social, or
cultural dependence. Imperialism is simply the process or policy of estab-
lishing or maintaining an empire .” 14 In our time, direct colonialism has
largely ended; imperialism, as we shall see, lingers where it has always been,
in a kind of general cultural sphere as well as in specific political, ideological,
economic, and social practices.
Neither imperialism nor colonialism is a simple act of accumulation and
acquisition. Both are supported and perhaps even impelled by impressive
ideological formations that include notions that certain territories and peo-
ple require and beseech domination, as well as forms of knowledge affiliated
with domination: the vocabulary of classic nineteenth-century imperial cul-
ture is plentiful with words and concepts like “inferior” or “subject races,”
“subordinate peoples,” “dependency,” “expansion,” and “authority.” Out of
the imperial experiences, notions about culture were clarified, reinforced,
criticized, or rejected. As for the curious but perhaps allowable idea propa-
gated a century' ago byj. R. Seeley that some of Europe’s overseas empires
were originally acquired absentmindedly, it does not by any stretch of the
imagination account for their inconsistency, persistence, and systematized
acquisition and administration, let alone their augmented rule and sheer
presence. As David Landes has said in The Unbound Prometheus, “the decision
of certain European powers ... to establish ‘plantations,’ that is to treat their
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
colonies as continuous enterprises was, whatever one may think of the
morality, a momentous innovation .” 15 That is the question that concerns me
here: given the initial, perhaps obscurely derived and motivated move
toward empire from Europe to the rest of the world, how did the idea and
the practice of it gain the consistency and density of continuous enterprise,
which it did by the latter part of the nineteenth century?
The primacy of the British and French empires by no means obscures the
quite remarkable modern expansion of Spain, Portugal, Holland, Belgium,
Germany, Italy, and, in a different way, Russia and the United States. Russia,
however, acquired its imperial territories almost exclusively by adjacence.
Unlike Britain or France, which jumped thousands of miles beyond their
own borders to other continents, Russia moved to swallow whatever land or
peoples stood next to its borders, which in the process kept moving farther
and farther east and south. But in the English and French cases, the sheer
distance of attractive territories summoned the projection of far-flung inter-
ests, and that is my focus here, partly because I am interested in examining
the set of cultural forms and structures of feeling which it produces, and
partly because overseas domination is the world I grew up in and still live
in. Russia’s and America’s joint superpower status, enjoyed for a little less
than half a century, derives from quite different histories and from different
imperial trajectories. There are several varieties of domination and re-
sponses to it, but the “Western” one, along with the resistance it provoked,
is the subject of this book.
In the expansion of the great Western empires, profit and hope of further
profit were obviously tremendously important, as the attractions of spices,
sugar, slaves, rubber, cotton, opium, tin, gold, and silver over centuries
amply testify. So also was inertia, the investment in already going enter-
prises, tradition, and the market or institutional forces that kept the enter-
prises going. But there is more than that to imperialism and colonialism.
There was a commitment to them over and above profit, a commitment in
constant circulation and recirculation, which, on the one hand, allowed
decent men and women to accept the notion that distant territories and their
native peoples should be subjugated, and, on the other, replenished metropol-
itan energies so that these decent people could think of the imperium as a
protracted, almost metaphysical obligation to rule subordinate, inferior, or
less advanced peoples. We must not forget that there was very little domes-
tic resistance to these empires, although they were very frequendy estab-
lished and maintained under adverse and even disadvantageous conditions.
Not only were immense hardships endured by the colonizers, but there was
always the tremendously risky physical disparity between a small number of
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Empire, Geography, and Culture
ii
Europeans at a very great distance from home and the much larger number
of natives on their home territory. In India, for instance, by the 1930s “a mere
4,000 British civil servants assisted by 60,000 soldiers and 90,000 civilians
(businessmen and clergy for the most part) had billeted themselves upon a
country of 300 million persons.” 16 The will, self-confidence, even arrogance
necessary to maintain such a state of affairs can only be guessed at, but, as
we shall see in the texts of A Passage to India and Kim, these attitudes are at
least as significant as the number of people in the army or civil service, or
the millions of pounds England derived from India.
For the enterprise of empire depends upon the idea of having an empire, as
Conrad so powerfully seems to have realized, and all kinds of preparations
are made for it within a culture; then in turn imperialism acquires a kind of
coherence, a set of experiences, and a presence of ruler and ruled alike
within the culture. As an acute modem student of imperialism has put it:
Modem imperialism has been an accretion of elements, not all of equal
weight, that can be traced back through every epoch of history. Perhaps
its ultimate causes, with those of war, are to be found less in tangible
material wants than in the uneasy tensions of societies distorted by class
division, with their reflection in distorted ideas in men’s minds. 17
One acute indication of how crucially the tensions, inequalities, and injus-
tices of the home or metropolitan society were refracted and elaborated in
the imperial culture is given by the distinguished conservative historian of
empire D. K. Fieldhouse: “The basis of imperial authority,” he says, “was the
mental attitude of the colonist His acceptance of subordination — whether
through a positive sense of common interest with the parent state, or
through inability to conceive of any alternative — made empire durable,” 18
Fieldhouse was discussing white colonists in the Americas, but his general
point goes beyond that: the durability of empire was sustained on both sides,
that of the rulers and that of the distant ruled, and in turn each had a set of
interpretations of their common history with its own perspective, historical
sense, emotions, and traditions. What an Algerian intellectual today remem-
bers of his country’s colonial past focusses severely on such events as
France’s military attacks on villages and the torture of prisoners during the
war of liberation, on the exultation over independence in 1961; for his French
counterpart, who may have taken part in Algerian affairs or whose family
lived in Algeria, there is chagrin at having “lost” Algeria, a more positive
attitude toward the French colonizing mission — with its schools, nicely
planned cities, pleasant life-— and perhaps even a sense that “troublemakers”
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
and communists disturbed the idyllic relationship between “us” and “them.”
To a vert’ great degree the era of high nineteenth-century imperialism is
over: France and Britain gave up their most splendid possessions after World
War Two, and lesser powers also divested themselves of their far-flung
dominions. Yet, once again recalling the words of T. S. Eliot, although that
era clearly had an identity all its own, the meaning of the imperial past is
not totally contained within it, but has entered the reality of hundreds of
millions of people, where its existence as shared memory and as a highly
conflictual texture of culture, ideology, and policy still exercises tremendous
force. Frantz Fanon says, “We should flatly refuse the situation to which the
Western countries wish to condemn us. Colonialism and imperialism have
not paid their score when they withdraw their flags and their police forces
from our territories. For centuries the [foreign] capitalists have behaved in
the underdeveloped world like nothing more than criminals ” 19 We must
take stock of the nostalgia for empire, as well as the anger and resentment
it provokes in those who were ruled, and we must try to look carefully and
integrally at the culture that nurtured the sentiment, rationale, and above all
the imagination of empire. And we must also try to grasp the hegemony of
the imperial ideology, which by the end of the nineteenth century had
become completely embedded in the affairs of cultures whose less regretta-
ble features we still celebrate.
There is, I believe, a quite serious split in our critical consciousness today,
which allows us to spend a great deal of time elaborating Carlyle’s and
Ruskin’s aesthetic theories, for example, without giving attention to the
authority that their ideas simultaneously bestowed on the subjugation of
inferior peoples and colonial territories. To take another example, unless we
can comprehend how the great European realistic novel accomplished one
of its principal purposes — almost unnoticeably sustaining the society’s con-
sent in overseas expansion, a consent that, in J. A. Hobson’s words, “the
selfish forces which direct Imperialism should utilize the protective colours
of . . . disinterested movements ” 20 such as philanthropy, religion, science and
an — we will misread both the culture’s importance and its resonances in the
empire, then and now.
Doing this by no means involves hurling critical epithets at European or,
generally, Western art and culture by way of wholesale condemnation. Not
at all. What I want to examine is how the processes of imperialism occurred
beyond the level of economic laws and political decisions, and — by predis-
position, by the authority of recognizable cultural formations, by continuing
consolidation within education, literature, and the visual and musical arts —
were manifested at another very significant level, that of the national culture,
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Empire, Geography, and Culture
'3
which we have tended to sanitize as a realm of unchanging intellectual
monuments, free from worldly affiliations. William Blake is unrestrained on
this point: “The Foundation of Empire,” he says in his annotations to
Reynolds’s Discourses, “is Art and Science. Remove them or Degrade them
and the Empire is No more. Empire follows Art and not vice versa as
Englishmen suppose .” 21
What, then, is the connection between the pursuit of national imperial
aims and the general national culture? Recent intellectual and academic
discourse has tended to separate and divide these: most scholars are special-
ists; most of the attention that is endowed with the status of expertise is given
to fairly autonomous subjects, e.g., the Victorian industrial novel, French
colonial policy in North Africa, and so forth. The tendency for fields and
specializations to subdivide and proliferate, I have for a long while argued,
is contrary to an understanding of the whole, when the character, interpreta-
tion, and direction or tendency of cultural experience are at issue. To lose
sight of or ignore the national and international context of, say, Dickens’s
representations of Victorian businessmen, and to focus only on the internal
coherence of their roles in his novels is to miss an essential connection
between his fiction and its historical world. And understanding that connec-
tion does not reduce or diminish the novels’ value as works of an: on the
contrary, because of their -worldliness, because of their complex affiliations
with their real setting, they are more interesting and more valuable as works
of art.
At the opening of Domhey and Son, Dickens wishes to underline the impor-
tance to Dombey of his son’s birth:
The eanh was made for Dombey and Son to trade in, and the sun and
moon were made to give them light. Rivers and seas were formed to
float their ships; rainbows gave them promise of fair weather; winds
blew for or against their enterprises; stars and planets circled in their
orbits, to preserve inviolate a system of which they were the centre.
Common abbreviations took new meanings in his eyes, and had sole
reference to them: A. D. had no concern with anno Domini, but stood
for anno Dombei — and Son . 22
As a description of Dombey’s overweening self-importance, his narcissis-
tic obliviousness, his coercive attitude to his barely born child, the service
performed by this passage is clear. But one must also ask, how could Dombey
think that the universe, and the whole of time, was his to trade in? We should
also see in this passage — which is by no means a central one in the novel —
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
an assumption specific to a British novelist in the 1840s: that, as Raymond
Williams has it, this was “the decisive period in which the consciousness of
a new phase of civilization was being formed and expressed.” But then, why
does Williams describe “this transforming, liberating, and threatening
time” 23 without reference to India, Africa, the Middle East, and Asia, since
that is where transformed British life expanded to and filled, as Dickens slyly
indicates?
Williams is a great critic, whose work I admire and have learned much
from, but I sense a limitation in his feeling that English literature is mainly
about England, an idea that is central to his work as it is to that of most
scholars and critics. Moreover, scholars who write about novels deal more
or less exclusively with them (though Williams is not one of those). These
habits seem to be guided by a powerful if imprecise notion that works of
literature are autonomous, whereas, as I shall be trying to show throughout
this book, the literature itself makes constant references to itself as somehow
participating in Europe’s overseas expansion, and therefore creates what
Williams calls “structures of feeling” that support, elaborate, and consolidate
the practice of empire. True, Dombey is neither Dickens himself nor the
whole of English literature, but the way in which Dickens expresses Dom-
bey’s egoism recalls, mocks, yet ultimately depends on the tried and true
discourses of imperial free trade, the British mercantile ethos, its sense of all
but unlimited opportunities for commercial advancement abroad.
These matters should not be severed from our understanding of the
nineteenth-century novel, any more than literature can be chopped off from
history and society. The supposed autonomy of works of art enjoins a kind
of separation which, I think, imposes an uninteresting limitation that the
works themselves resolutely will not make. Still, I have deliberately ab-
stained from advancing a completely worked out theory of the connection
between literature and culture on the one hand, and imperialism on the
other. Instead, I hope the connections will emerge from their explicit places
in the various texts, with the enveloping setting — empire — there to make
connections with, to develop, elaborate, expand, or criticize. Neither culture
nor imperialism is inert, and so the connections between them as historical
experiences are dynamic and complex. My principal aim is not to separate
but to connect, and I am interested in this for the main philosophical and
methodological reason that cultural forms are hybrid, mixed, impure, and
the time has come in cultural analysis to reconnect their analysis with their
actuality.
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Images of the Past, Pure and Impure
1/
( n )
Images of the Past, Pure and Impure
A s the twentieth century moves to a close, there has been a gathering
awareness nearly everywhere of the lines between cultures, the divi-
sions and differences that not only allow us to discriminate one culture from
another, but also enable us to see the extent to which cultures are humanly
made structures of both authority and participation, benevolent in what they
include, incorporate, and validate, less benevolent in what they exclude and
demote.
There is in all nationally defined cultures, I believe, an aspiration to
sovereignty, to sway, and to dominance. In this, French and British, Indian
and Japanese cultures concur. At the same time, paradoxically, we have
never been as aware as we now are of how oddly hybrid historical and
cultural experiences are, of how they partake of many often contradictory
experiences and domains, cross national boundaries, defy the police action of
simple dogma and loud patriotism. Far from being unitary or monolithic or
autonomous things, cultures actually assume more “foreign” elements, al-
terities, differences, than they consciously exclude. Who in India or Algeria
today can confidently separate out the British or French component of the
past from present actualities, and who in Britain or France can draw a clear
circle around British London or French Paris that would exclude the impact
of India and Algeria upon those two imperial cities?
These are not nostalgically academic or theoretical questions, for as a
brief excursion or two will ascertain, they have important social and political
consequences. Both London and Paris have large immigrant populations
from the former colonies, which themselves have a large residue of British
and French culture in their daily life. But that is obvious. Consider, for a
more complex example, the well-known issues of the image of classical
Greek antiquity or of tradition as a determinant of national identity. Studies
such as Martin Bernal’s Black Athena and Eric Hobsbawm and Terence
Ranger’s The Invention of Tradition have accentuated the extraordinary in-
fluence of today’s anxieties and agendas on the pure (even purged) images
we construct of a privileged, genealogically useful past, a past in which we
exclude unwanted elements, vestiges, narratives. Thus, according to Bernal,
whereas Greek civilization was known originally to have roots in Egyptian,
Semitic, and various other southern and eastern cultures, it was redesigned
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
as “Aryan” during the course of the nineteenth century, its Semitic and
African roots either actively purged or hidden from view. Since Greek
writers themselves openly acknowledged their culture’s hybrid past, Euro-
pean philologists acquired the ideological habit of passing over these embar-
rassing passages without comment, in the interests of Attic purity. 24 (One
also recalls that only in the nineteenth century did European historians of
the Crusades begin not to allude to the practice of cannibalism among the
Frankish knights, even though eating human flesh is mentioned un-
ashamedly in contemporary Crusader chronicles.)
No less than the image of Greece, images of European authority were
buttressed and shaped during the nineteenth century, and where but in the
manufacture of rituals, ceremonies, and traditions could this be done? This
is the argument put forward by Hobsbawm, Ranger, and the other contribu-
tors to The Invention of Tradition, At a time when the older filaments and
organizations that bound pre-modern societies internally were beginning to
fray, and when the social pressures of administering numerous overseas
territories and large new domestic constituencies mounted, the ruling elites
of Europe felt the clear need to project their power backward in time, giving
it a history and legitimacy that only tradition and longevity could impart.
Thus in 1871? Victoria was declared Empress of India, her Viceroy Lord
Lytton was sent there on a visit, greeted and celebrated in “traditional”
jamborees and durbars all over the country, as well as in a great Imperial
Assemblage in Delhi, as if her rule was not mainly a matter of power and
unilateral edict, rather than age-old custom. 25
Similar constructions have been made on the opposite side, that is, by
insurgent “natives” about their pre-colonial past, as in the case of Algeria
during the War of Independence (1954-1962), when decolonization encour-
aged Algerians and Muslims to create images of what they supposed them-
selves to have been prior to French colonization. This strategy is at work in
what many national poets or men of letters say and write during indepen-
dence or liberation struggles elsewhere in the colonial world. I want to
underline the mobilizing power of the images and traditions brought forth,
and their fictional, or at least romantically colored, fantastic quality. Think
of what Yeats does for the Irish past, with its Cuchulains and its great houses,
which give the nationalist struggle something to revive and admire. In
post-colonial national states, the liabilities of such essences as the Celtic
spirit, nigritude, or Islam are clean they have much to do not only with the
native manipulators, who also use them to cover up contemporary 7 faults,
corruptions, tyrannies, but also with the embattled imperial contexts out of
which they came and in which they were felt to be necessary.
Though for the most part the colonies have won their independence,
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Images of the Past, Pure and Impure 17
many of the imperial attitudes underlying colonial conquest continue. In 1910
the French advocate of colonialism Jules Harmand said:
It is necessary, then, to accept as a principle and point of departure the
fact that there is a hierarchy of races and civilizations, and that we
belong to the superior race and civilization, still recognizing that, while
superiority confers rights, it imposes strict obligations in return. The
basic legitimation of conquest over native peoples is the conviction of
our superiority, not merely our mechanical, economic, and military
superiority, but our moral superiority. Our dignity rests on that quality,
and it underlies our right to direct the rest of humanity. Material power
is nothing but a means to that end. 26
As a precursor of today’s polemics about the superiority of Western civiliza-
tion over others, the supreme value of purely Western humanities as ex-
tolled by conservative philosophers like Allan Bloom, the essential
inferiority (and threat) of the non-Westemer as claimed by Japan-bashers,
ideological Orientalists, and critics of “native” regression in Africa and Asia,
Harmand’s declaration has a stunning prescience.
More important than the past itself, therefore, is its bearing upon cultural
attitudes in the present. For reasons that are partly embedded in the imperial
experience, the old divisions between colonizer and colonized have re-
emerged in what is often referred to as the North-South relationship, which
has entailed defensiveness, various kinds of rhetorical and ideological com-
bat, and a simmering hostility that is quite likely to trigger devastating
wars — in some cases it already has. Are there ways we can reconceive the
imperial experience in other than compartmentalized terms, so as to trans-
form our understanding of both the past and the present and our attitude
toward the future?
We must start by characterizing the commonest ways that people handle
the tangled, many-sided legacy of imperialism, not just those who left the
colonies, but also those who were there in the first place and who remained,
the natives. Many people in England probably feel a certain remorse or
regret about their nation’s Indian experience, but there are also many people
who miss the good old days, even though the value of those days, the reason
they ended, and their own attitudes toward native nationalism are all un-
resolved, still volatile issues. This is especially the case when race relations
are involved, for instance during the crisis over the publication of Salman
Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses and the subsequent farwa calling for Rushdie’s
death issued by Ayatollah Khomeini.
But, equally, debate in Third World countries about colonialist practice
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
and the imperialist ideology that sustained it is extremely lively and diverse.
Large groups of people believe that the bitterness and humiliations of the
experience which virtually enslaved them nevertheless delivered benefits —
liberal ideas, national self-consciousness, and technological goods — that
over time seem to have made imperialism much less unpleasant. Other
people in the post-colonial age retrospectively reflected on colonialism the
better to understand the difficulties of the present in newly independent
states. Real problems of democracy, development, and destiny, are attested
to by the state persecution of intellectuals who carry on their thought and
practice publicly and courageously — Eqbal Ahmad and Faiz Ahmad Faiz
in Pakistan, Ngugi wa Thiongo in Kenya, or Abdelrahman el Munif in
-the Arab world — major thinkers and artists whose sufferings have not
blunted the intransigence of their thought, or inhibited the severity of their
punishment.
Neither Munif, Ngugi, nor Faiz, nor any other like them, was anything
but unstinting in his hatred of implanted colonialism or the imperialism that
kept it going. Ironically, they were listened to only partially, whether in the
West or by the ruling authorities in their own societies. They were likely,
on the one hand, to be considered by many Western intellectuals retrospec-
tivejeremiahs denouncing the evils of a past colonialism, and, on the other,
to be treated by their governments in Saudi Arabia, Kenya, Pakistan as
agents of outside powers who deserved imprisonment or exile. The tragedy
of this experience, and indeed of so many post-colonial experiences, derives
from the limitations of the attempts to deal with relationships that are
polarized, radically uneven, remembered differently. The spheres, the sites
of intensity, the agendas, and the constituencies in the metropolitan and
ex-colonized worlds appear to overlap only partially. The small area that is
perceived as common does not, at this point, provide for more than what
might be called a rhetoric of blame.
I want first to consider the actualities of the intellectual terrains both
common and discrepant in post-imperial public discourse, especially con-
centrating on what in this discourse gives rise to and encourages the rhetoric
and politics of blame. Then, using the perspectives and methods of what
might be called a comparative literature of imperialism, I shall consider the
ways in which a reconsidered or revised notion of how a post-imperial
intellectual attitude might expand the overlapping community between
metropolitan and formerly colonized societies. By looking at the different
experiences contrapuntally, as making up a set of what I call intertwined and
overlapping histories, I shall try to formulate an alternative both to a politics
of blame and to the even more destructive politics of confrontation and
hostility. A more interesting type of secular interpretation can emerge,
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Two Visions in Heart of Darkness
>9
altogether more rewarding than the denunciations of the past, the expres-
sions of regret for its having ended, or — even more wasteful because violent
and far too easy and attractive — the hostility between Western and non-
Westem cultures that leads to crises. The world is too small and interdepen-
dent to let these passively happen.
( in )
Two Visions in Heart of Darkness
D omination and inequities of power and wealth are perennial facts of
human society. But in today’s global setting they are also interpretable
as having something to do with imperialism, its history, its new forms. The
nations of contemporary Asia, Latin America, and Africa are politically
independent but in many ways are as dominated and dependent as they were
when ruled directly by European powers. On the one hand, this is the
consequence of self-inflicted wounds, critics like V. S. Naipaul are wont to
say: they (everyone knows that “they” means coloreds, wogs, niggers) are to
blame for what “they” are, and it’s no use droning on about the legacy of
imperialism. On the other hand, blaming the Europeans sweepingly for the
misfortunes of the present is not much of an alternative. What we need to
do is to look at these matters as a network of interdependent histories that
it would be inaccurate and senseless to repress, useful and interesting to
understand.
The point here is not complicated. If while sitting in Oxford, Paris, or
New York you tell Arabs or Africans that they belong to a basically sick or
unregenerate culture, you are unlikely to convince them. Even if you prevail
over them, they are not going to concede to you your essential superiority
or your right to rule them despite your evident wealth and power. The
history of this stand-off is manifest throughout colonies where white masters
were once unchallenged but finally driven out. Conversely, the triumphant
natives soon enough found that they needed the West and that the idea of
total independence was a nationalist fiction designed mainly for what Fanon
calls the “nationalist bourgeoisie,” who in turn often ran the new countries
with a callous, exploitative tyranny reminiscent of the departed masters.
And so in the late twentieth century the imperial cycle of the last century
in some way replicates itself, although today there are really no big empty
spaces, no expanding frontiers, no exciting new settlements to establish. We
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
live in one global environment with a huge number of ecological, economic,
social, and political pressures tearing at its only dimly perceived, basically
uninterpreted and uncomprehended fabric. Anyone with even a vague con-
sciousness of this whole is alarmed at how such remorselessly selfish and
narrow interests — patriotism, chauvinism, ethnic, religious, and racial ha-
treds — can in fact lead to mass destructiveness. The world simply cannot
afford this many more times.
One should not pretend that models for a harmonious world order are
ready at hand, and it would be equally disingenuous to suppose that ideas
of peace and community have much of a chance when power is moved to
action by aggressive perceptions of “vital national interests” or unlimited
sovereignty. The United States’ clash with Iraq and Iraq’s aggression against
Kuwait concerning oil are obvious examples. The wonder of it is that the
schooling for such relatively provincial thought and action is still prevalent,
unchecked, uncritically accepted, recurringly replicated in the education of
generation after generation. We are all taught to venerate our nations and
admire our traditions: we are taught to pursue their interests with toughness
and in disregard for other societies. A new and in my opinion appalling
tribalism is fracturing societies, separating peoples, promoting greed, bloody
conflict, and uninteresting assertions of minor ethnic or group particularity.
Little time is spent not so much in “learning about other cultures” — the
phrase has an inane vagueness to it — but in studying the map of interactions,
the actual and often productive traffic occurring on a day-by-day, and even
minute-by-minute basis among states, societies, groups, identities.
No one can hold this entire map in his or her head, which is why the
geography of empire and the many-sided imperial experience that created
its fundamental texture should be considered first in terms of a few salient
configurations. Primarily, as we look back at the nineteenth century, we see
that the drive toward empire in effect brought most of the earth under the
domination of a handful of powers. To get hold of part of what this means,
I propose to look at a specific set of rich cultural documents in which the
interaction between Europe or America on the one hand and the imperial-
ized world on the other is animated, informed, made explicit as an experi-
ence for both sides of the encounter. Yet before I do this, historically and
systematically, it is a useful preparation to look at what still remains of
imperialism in recent cultural discussion. This is the residuum of a dense,
interesting history that is paradoxically global and local at the same time,
and it is also a sign of how the imperial past lives on, arousing argument and
counter-argument with surprising intensity. Because they are contemporary
and easy at hand, these traces of the past in the present point the way to a
study of the histories — the plural is used advisedly — created by empire, not
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Two Visions in Heart of Darkness
21
just the stories of the white man and woman, but also those of the non-whites
whose lands and very being were at issue, even as their claims were denied
or ignored.
One significant contemporary debate about the residue of imperialism —
the matter of how “natives” are represented in the Western media — illus-
trates the persistence of such interdependence and overlapping, not only in
the debate’s content but in its form, not only in what is said but also in how
it is said, by whom, where, and for whom. This bears looking into, although
it requires a self-discipline not easily come by, so well-developed, tempting,
and ready at hand are the confrontational strategies. In 1984, well before The
Satanic Verses appeared, Salman Rushdie diagnosed the spate of films and
articles about the British Raj, including the television series The Jewel in the
Crown and David Lean’s film of A Passage to India. Rushdie noted that the
nostalgia pressed into service by these affectionate recollections of British
rule in India coincided with the Falklands War, and that “the rise of Raj
revisionism, exemplified by the huge success of these fictions, is the artistic
counterpan to the rise of conservative ideologies in modern Britain.” Com-
mentators responded to what they considered Rushdie’s wailing and whin-
ing in public and.seemed to disregard his principal point. Rushdie was trying
to make a larger argument, which presumably should have appealed to
intellectuals for whom George Orwell’s well-known description of the intel-
lectual’s place in society as being inside and outside the whale no longer
applied; modern reality in Rushdie’s terms was actually “whaleless, this
world without quiet corners [in which] there can be no easy escapes from
history, from hullabaloo, from terrible, unquiet fuss.”* 7 But Rushdie’s main
point was not the point considered worth taking up and debating. Instead the
main issue for contention was whether things in the Third World hadn’t in
fact declined after the colonies had been emancipated, and whether it might
not be better on the whole to listen to the rare — luckily, I might add,
extremely rare — Third World intellectuals who manfully ascribed most of
their present barbarities, tyrannies, and degradations to their own native
histories, histories that were pretty bad before colonialism and that reverted
to that state after colonialism. Hence, ran this argument, better a ruthlessly
honest V. S. Naipaul than an absurdly posturing Rushdie.
One could conclude from the emotions stirred up by Rushdie’s own case,
then and later, that many people in the West came to feel that enough was
enough. After Vietnam and Iran — and note here that these labels are usually
employed equally to evoke American domestic traumas (the student insur-
rections of the 1960s, the public anguish about the hostages in the 1970s) as
much as international conflict and the “loss” of Vietnam and Iran to radical
nationalisms — after Vietnam and Iran, lines had to be defended. Western
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22 OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
democracy had taken a beating, and even if the physical damage had been
done abroad, there was a sense, as Jimmy Carter once rather oddly put it,
of “mutual destruction.” This feeling in turn led to Westerners rethinking
the whole process of decolonization. Was it not true, ran their new evalua-
tion, that “we” had given “them” progress and modernization? Hadn’t we
provided them with order and a kind of stability that they haven’t been able
since to provide for themselves? Wasn’t it an atrocious misplaced trust to
believe in their capacity for independence, for it had led to Bokassas and
Amins, whose intellectual correlates were people like Rushdie? Shouldn’t
we have held on to the colonies, kept the subject or inferior races in check,
remained true to our civilizational responsibilities?
I realize that what I have just reproduced is not entirely the thing itself,
but perhaps a caricature. Nevertheless it bears an uncomfortable resem-
blance to what many people who imagined themselves speaking for the
West said. There seemed little skepticism that a monolithic “West” in fact
existed, any more than an entire ex-colonial world described in one sweep-
ing generalization after another. The leap to essences and generalizations
was accompanied by appeals to an imagined history of Western endowments
and free hand-outs, followed by a reprehensible sequence of ungrateful
bitings of that grandly giving “Western” hand. “Why don’t they appreciate
us, after what we did for them?” 28
How easily so much could be compressed into that simple formula of
unappreciated magnanimity! Dismissed or forgotten were the ravaged colo-
nial peoples who for centuries endured summary justice, unending eco-
nomic oppression, distortion of their social and intimate lives, and a
recourseless submission that was the function of unchanging European supe-
riority. Only to keep in mind the millions of Africans who were supplied to
the slave trade is to acknowledge the unimaginable cost of maintaining that
superiority. Yet dismissed most often are precisely the infinite number of
traces in the immensely detailed, violent history of colonial intervention —
minute by minute, hour by hour — in the lives of individuals and collectivi-
ties, on both sides of the colonial divide.
The thing to be noticed about this kind of contemporary discourse, which
assumes the primacy and even the complete centrality of the West, is how
totalizing is its form, how all-enveloping its attitudes and gestures, how
much it shuts out even as it includes, compresses, and consolidates. We
suddenly find ourselves transported backward in time to the late nineteenth
century.
This imperial attitude is, I believe, beautifully captured in the compli-
cated and rich narrative form of Conrad’s great novella Heart of Darkness,
written between 1898 and 1899. O' 1 one hand, the narrator Marlow
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Two Visions in Heart of Darkness
2 3
acknowledges the tragic predicament of all speech — that “it is impossible to
convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence — that which
makes its truth, its meaning — its subtle and penetrating essence We live,
as we dream — alone” 29 — yet still manages to convey the enormous power
of Kurtz’s African experience through his own overmastering narrative of his
voyage into the African interior toward Kurtz. This narrative in turn is
connected directly with the redemptive force, as well as the waste and
horror, of Europe’s mission in the dark world. Whatever is lost or elided or
even simply made up in Marlow’s immensely compelling recitation is com-
pensated for in the narrative’s sheer historical momentum, the temporal
forward movement — with digressions, descriptions, exciting encounters,
and all. Within the narrative of how he journeyed to Kurtz’s Inner Station,
whose source and authority he now becomes, Marlow moves backward and
forward materially in small and large spirals, very much the way episodes
in the course of his journey up-river are then incorporated by the principal
forward trajectory into what he renders as “the heart of Africa.”
Thus Marlow’s encounter with the improbably white-suited clerk in the
middle of the jungle furnishes him with several digressive paragraphs, as
does his meeting later with the semi-crazed, harlequin-like Russian who has
been so affected by Kurtz’s gifts. Yet underlying Marlow’s inconclusiveness,
his evasions, his arabesque meditations on his feelings and ideas, is the
unrelenting course of the journey itself, which, despite all the many obsta-
cles, is sustained through the jungle, through time, through hardship, to the
heart of it all, Kurtz’s ivory-trading empire. Conrad wants us to see how
Kurtz’s great looting adventure, Marlow’s journey up the river, and the
narrative itself all share a common theme: Europeans performing acts of
imperial mastery and will in (or about) Africa.
What makes Conrad different from the other colonial writers who were
his contemporaries is that, for reasons having partly to do with the colonial-
ism that turned him, a Polish expatriate, into an employee of the imperial
system, he was so self-conscious about what he did. Like most of his other
tales, therefore, Heart of Darkness cannot just be a straightforward recital of
Marlow’s adventures: it is also a dramatization of Marlow himself, the
former wanderer in colonial regions, telling his story to a group of British
listeners at a particular time and in a specific place. That this group of people
is drawn largely from the business world is Conrad’s way of emphasizing the
fact that during the 1890s the business of empire, once an adventurous and
often individualistic enterprise, had become the empire of business. (Coinci-
dentally we should note that at about the same time Halford Mackinder, an
explorer, geographer, and Liberal Imperialist, gave a series of lectures on
imperialism at the London Institute of Bankers: 30 perhaps Conrad knew
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
about this.) Although the almost oppressive force of Marlow’s narrative
leaves us with a quite accurate sense that there is no way out of the sovereign
historical force of imperialism, and that it has the power of a system repre-
senting as well as speaking for everything within its dominion, Conrad
shows us that what Marlow does is contingent, acted out for a set of
like-minded British hearers, and limited to that situation.
Yet neither Conrad nor Marlow gives us a full view of what is outside the
world-conquering attitudes embodied by Kurtz, Marlow, the circle of listen-
ers on the deck of the Nellie, and Conrad. By that I mean that Heart of Darkness
works so effectively because its politics and aesthetics are, so to speak,
imperialist, which in the closing years of the nineteenth cenrury seemed to
be at the same time an aesthetic, politics, and even epistemology inevitable
and unavoidable. For if we cannot truly understand someone else’s experi-
ence and if we must therefore depend upon the assertive authority of the sort
of power that Kurtz wields as a white man in the jungle or that Marlow,
another white man, wields as narrator, there is no use looking for other,
non-imperialist alternatives; the system has simply eliminated them and
made them unthinkable. The circularity, the perfect closure of the whole
thing is not only aesthetically but also mentally unassailable.
Conrad is so self-conscious about situating Marlow’s tale in a narrative
moment that he allows us simultaneously to realize after all that imperial-
ism, far from swallowing up its own history, was taking place in and was
circumscribed by a larger history, one just outside the tightly inclusive circle
of Europeans on the deck of the Nellie. As yet, however, no one seemed to
inhabit that region, and so Conrad left it empty.'
Conrad could probably never have used Marlow to present anything
other than an imperialist world-view, given what was available for either
Conrad or Marlow to see of the non-European at the time. Independence
was for whites and Europeans; the lesser or subject peoples were to be ruled;
science, learning, history emanated from the West. True, Conrad scrupu-
lously recorded the differences between the disgraces of Belgian and British
colonial attitudes, but he could only imagine the world carved up into one
or another Western sphere of dominion. But because Conrad also had an
extraordinarily persistent residual sense of his own exilic marginality, he
quite carefully (some would say maddeningly) qualified Marlow’s narrative
with the provisionality that came from standing at the very juncture of this
world with another, unspecified but different. Conrad was certainly not a
great imperialist entrepreneur like Cecil Rhodes or Frederick Lugard, even
though he understood perfectly how for each of them, in Hannah Arendt’s
words, to enter “the maelstrom of an unending process of expansion, he will,
as it were, cease to be what he was and obey the laws of the process, identify
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Tivo Visions in Heart of Darkness
25
himself with anonymous forces that he is supposed to serve in order to keep
the whole process in motion, he will think of himself as mere function, and
eventually consider such functionality, such an incarnation of the dynamic
trend, his highest possible achievement.” 31 Conrad’s realization is that if, like
narrative, imperialism has monopolized the entire system of representa-
tion — which in the case of Heart of Darkness allowed it to speak for Africans
as well as for Kurtz and the other adventurers, including Marlow and his
audience — your self-consciousness as an outsider can allow you actively to
comprehend how the machine works, given that you and it are fundamen-
tally not in perfect synchrony or correspondence. Never the wholly incor-
porated and fully acculturated Englishman, Conrad therefore preserved an
ironic distance in each of his works.
The form of Conrad’s narrative has thus made it possible to derive two
possible arguments, two visions, in the post-colonial world that succeeded
his. One argument allows the old imperial enterprise full scope to play itself
out conventionally, to render the world as official European or Western
imperialism saw it, and to consolidate itself after World War Two. Western-
ers may have physically left their old colonies in Africa and Asia, but they
retained them not only as markets but as locales on the ideological map over
which they continued to rule morally and intellectually. “Show me the Zulu
Tolstoy,” as one American intellectual has recently put it. The assertive
sovereign inclusiveness of this argument courses through the words of those
who speak today for the West and for what the West did, as well as for what
the rest of the world is, was, and may be. The assertions of this discourse
exclude what has been represented as “lost” by arguing that the colonial
world was in some ways ontologically speaking lost to begin with, irredeem-
able, irrecusably inferior. Moreover, it focusses not on what was shared in
the colonial experience, but on what must never be shared, namely the
authority and rectitude that come with greater power and development.
Rhetorically, its terms are the organization of political passions, to borrow
from Julien Benda’s critique of modern intellectuals, terms which, he was
sensible enough to know, lead inevitably to mass slaughter, and if not to
literal mass slaughter then certainly to rhetorical slaughter.
The second argument is considerably less objectionable. It sees itself as
Conrad saw his own narratives, local to a time and place, neither uncondi-
tionally true nor unqualifiedly certain. As 1 have said, Conrad does not give
us the sense that he could imagine a fully realized alternative to imperialism:
the natives he wrote about in Africa, Asia, or America were incapable of
independence, and because he seemed to imagine that European tutelage
was a given, he could not foresee what would take place when it came to an
end. But come to an end it would, if only because — like all human effort, like
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
16
speech itself — it would have its moment, then it would have to pass. Since
Conrad dates imperialism, shows its contingency, records its illusions and
tremendous violence and waste (as in Nostromo), he permits his later readers
to imagine something other than an Africa carved up into dozens of Euro-
pean colonies, even if, for his own part, he had little notion of what that
Africa might be.
To return to the first line out of Conrad, the discourse of resurgent empire
proves that the nineteenth-century imperial encounter continues today to
draw lines and defend barriers. Strangely, it persists also in the enormously
complex and quietly interesting interchange between former colonial part-
ners, say between Britain and India, or between France and the Francophone
countries of Africa. But these exchanges tend to be overshadowed by the
loud antagonisms of the polarized debate of pro- and anti-imperialists, who
speak stridently of national destiny, overseas interests, neo-imperialism, and
the like, drawing like-minded people — aggressive Westerners and, ironi-
cally, those non- Westerners for whom the new nationalist and resurgent
Ayatollahs speak — away from the other ongoing interchange. Inside each
regrettably constricted camp stand the blameless, the just, the faithful, led by
the omnicompetent, those who know the truth about themselves and others;
outside stands a miscellaneous bunch of querulous intellectuals and wishy-
washy skeptics who go on complaining about the past to little effect.
An important ideological shift occurred during the 1970s and 1980s, accom-
panying this contraction of horizons in what I have been calling the first of
the two lines leading out of Heart of Darkness. One can locate it, for instance,
in the dramatic change in emphasis and, quite literally, direction among
thinkers noted for their radicalism. The later Jean-Franfois Lyotard and
Michel Foucault, eminent French philosophers who emerged during the
1960s as apostles of radicalism and intellectual insurgency, describe a striking
new lack of faith in what Lyotard calls the great legitimizing narratives of
emancipation and enlightenment. Our age, he said in the 1980s, is post-
modernist, concerned only with local issues, not with history but with
problems to be solved, not with a grand reality but with games. 32 Foucault
also turned his attention away from the oppositional forces in modern
society which he had studied for their undeterred resistance to exclusion and
confinement — delinquents, poets, outcasts, and the like — and decided that
since power was everywhere it was probably better to concentrate on the
local micro-physics of power that surround the individual. The self was
therefore to be studied, cultivated, and, if necessary, refashioned and con-
stituted. 33 In both Lyotard and Foucault we find precisely the same trope
employed to explain the disappointment in the politics of liberation: narra-
tive, which posits an enabling beginning point and a vindicating goal, is no
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Two Visions in Heart of Darkness
*7
longer adequate for plotting the human trajectory in society. There is
nothing to look forward to: we are stuck within our circle. And now the line
is enclosed by a circle. After years of support for anti-colonial struggles in
Algeria, Cuba, Vietnam, Palestine, Iran, which came to represent for many
Western intellectuals their deepest engagement in the politics and philoso-
phy of anti-imperialist decolonization, a moment of exhaustion and disap-
pointment was reached . 34 One began to hear and read how futile it was to
support revolutions, how barbaric were the new regimes that came to power,
how — this is an extreme case — decolonization had benefited “world
communism.”
Enter now terrorism and barbarism. Enter also the ex-colonial experts
whose well-publicized message was these colonial peoples deserve only
colonialism or, since “we” were foolish to pull out of Aden, Algeria, India,
Indochina, and everywhere else, it might be a good idea to reinvade their
territories. Enter also various experts and theoreticians of the relationship
between liberation movements, terrorism, and the KGB. There was a resur-
gence of sympathy for what Jeane Kirkpatrick called authoritarian (as op-
posed to totalitarian) regimes who were Western allies. With the onset of
Reaganism, Thatcherism, and their correlates, a new phase of history began.
However else it might have been historically understandable, peremp-
torily withdrawing “the West” from its own experiences in the “peripheral
world” certainly was and is not an attractive or edifying activity for an
intellectual today. It shuts out the possibility of knowledge and of discovery
of what it means to be outside the whale. Let us return to Rushdie for
another insight:
We see that it can be as false to create a politics-free fictional universe
as to create one in which nobody needs to work or eat or hate or love
or sleep. Outside the whale it becomes necessary, and even exhilarat-
ing, to grapple with the special problems created by the incorporation
of political material, because politics is by turns farce and tragedy, and
sometimes (e.g., Zia’s Pakistan) both at once. Outside the whale the
writer is obliged to accept that he (or she) is part of the crowd, part of
the ocean, part of the storm, so that objectivity becomes a great dream,
like perfection, an unattainable goal for which one must struggle in
• spite of the impossibility of success. Outside the whale is the world of
Samuel Beckett’s famous formula: I can't go on. I’ll go onT
The terms of Rushdie’s description, while they borrow from Orwell, seem
to me to resonate even more interestingly with Conrad. For here is the
second consequence, the second line leading out of Conrad’s narrative form;
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
in its explicit references to the outside, it points to a perspective outside the
basically imperialist representations provided by Marlow and his listeners.
It is a profoundly secular perspective, and it is beholden neither to notions
about historical destiny and the essentialism that destiny always seems to
entail, nor to historical indifference and resignation. Being on the inside
shuts out the full experience of imperialism, edits it and subordinates it to
the dominance of one Eurocentric and totalizing view; this other perspective
suggests the presence of a field without special historical privileges for one
party.
I don’t want to overinterpret Rushdie, or put ideas in his prose that he
may not have intended. In this controversy with the local British media
(before The Satanic Verses sent him into hiding), he claimed that he could not
recognize the truth of his own experience in the popular media representa-
tions of India. Now I myself would go further and say that it is one of the
virtues of such conjunctures of politics with culrure and aesthetics that they
permit the disclosure of a common ground obscured by the controversy
itself. Perhaps it is especially hard for the combatants directly involved to
see this common ground when they are fighting back more than reflecting.
I can perfectly understand the anger that fuelled Rushdie’s argument be-
cause like him I feel outnumbered and outorganized by a prevailing Western
consensus that has come to regard the Third World as an atrocious nuisance,
a culturally and politically inferior place. Whereas we write and speak as
members of a small minority of marginal voices, our journalistic and aca-
demic critics belong to a wealthy system of interlocking informational and
academic resources with newspapers, television networks, journals of opin-
ion, and institutes at its disposal. Most of them, have now taken up a strident
chorus of rightward-tending damnation, in which they separate what is
non-white, non-Westem, and non-Judeo-Christian from the acceptable and
designated Western ethos, then herd it all together under various demeaning
rubrics such as terrorist, marginal, second-rate, or unimportant. To attack
what is contained in these categories is to defend the Western spirit.
Let us return to Conrad and to what I have been referring to as the
second, less imperialistically assertive possibility offered by Heart of Darkness.
Recall once again that Conrad sets the story on the deck of a boat anchored
in the Thames; as Marlow tells his story the sun sets, and by the end of the
narrative the heart of darkness has reappeared in England; outside the group
of Marlow’s listeners lies an undefined and unclear world. Conrad some-
times seems to want to fold that world into the imperial metropolitan
discourse represented by Marlow, but by virtue of his own dislocated subjec-
tivity he resists the effort and succeeds in so doing, I have always believed,
largely through formal devices. Conrad’s self-consciously circular narrative
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29
forms draw attention to themselves as artificial constructions, encouraging
us to sense the potential of a reality that seemed inaccessible to imperialism,
just beyond its control, and that only well after Conrad’s death in 1924
acquired a substantial presence.
This needs more explanation. Despite their European names and manner-
isms, Conrad’s narrators are not average unreflecting witnesses ofEuropean
imperialism. They do not simply accept what goes on in the name of the
imperial idea: they think about it a lot, they worry about it, they are actually
quite anxious about whether they can make it seem like a routine thing. But
it never is. Conrad’s way of demonstrating this discrepancy between the
orthodox and his own views of empire is to keep drawing attention to how
ideas and values are constructed (and deconstructed) through dislocations in
the narrator’s language. In addition, the recitations are meticulously staged:
the narrator is a speaker whose audience and the reason for their being
together, the quality of whose voice, the effect of what he says — are all
important and even insistent aspects of the story he tells. Marlow, for
example, is never straightforward. He alternates between garrulity and stun-
ning eloquence, and rarely resists making peculiar things seem more pecu-
liar by surprisingly misstating them, or rendering them vague and
contradictory. Thus, he says, a French warship fires “into a continent”;
Kurtz’s eloquence is enlightening as well as fraudulent; and so on — his
speech so full of these odd discrepancies (well discussed by Ian Wart as
“delayed decoding” 36 ) that the net effect is to leave his immediate audience
as well as the reader with the acute sense that what he is presenting is not
quite as it should be or appears to be.
Yet the whole point of what Kurtz and Marlow talk about is in fact
imperial mastery, white European over black Africans, and their ivory, civili-
zation over the primitive dark continent. By accentuating the discrepancy
between the official “idea” of empire and the remarkably disorienting actual-
ity of Africa, Marlow unsettles the reader’s sense not only of the very idea
of empire, but of something more basic, reality itself. For if Conrad can show
that all human activity depends on controlling a radically unstable reality to
which words approximate only by will or convention, the same is true of
empire, of venerating the idea, and so forth. With Conrad, then, we are in
a world being made and unmade more or less all the time. W'hat appears
stable and secure — the policeman at the corner, for instance — is only
slightly more secure than the white men in the jungle, and requires the same
continuous (but precarious) triumph over an all-pervading darkness, which
by the end of the tale is shown to be the same in London and in Africa.
Conrad’s genius allowed him to realize that the ever-present darkness
could be colonized or illuminated — Heart of Darkness is full of references to
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
the mission civilisatrice, to benevolent as well as cruel schemes to bring light
to the dark places and peoples of this world by acts of will and deployments
of power — but that it also had to be acknowledged as independent. Kurtz
and Marlow acknowledge the darkness, the former as he is dying, the latter
as he reflects retrospectively on the meaning of Kurtz’s final words. They
(and of course Conrad) are ahead of their time in understanding that what
they call “the darkness” has an autonomy of its own, and can reinvade and
reclaim what imperialism had taken for its own. But Marlow and Kurtz are
also creatures of their time and cannot take the next step, which would be
to recognize that what they saw, disablingly and disparagingly, as a non-
European “darkness” was in fact a non-European world resisting imperialism
so as one day to regain sovereignty and independence, and not, as Conrad
reductively says, to reestablish the darkness. Conrad’s tragic limitation is
that even though he could see clearly that on one level imperialism was
essentially pure dominance and land-grabbing, he could not then conclude
that imperialism had to end so that “natives” could lead lives free from
European domination. As a creature of his time, Conrad could not grant the
natives their freedom, despite his severe critique of the imperialism that
enslaved them.
The cultural and ideological evidence that Conrad was wrong in his
Eurocentric way is both impressive and rich. A whole movement, literature,
and theory of resistance and response to empire exists — it is the subject of
Chapter Three of this book — and in greatly disparate post-colonial regions
one sees tremendously energetic efforts to engage with the metropolitan
world in equal debate so as to testify to the diversity and differences of the
non-European world and to its own agendas, priorities, and history. The
purpose of this testimony is to inscribe, reinterpret, and expand the areas of
engagement as well as the terrain contested with Europe. Some of this
activity — for example, the work of two important and active Iranian intel-
lectuals, Ali Shariati and Jalal Ali i- Ahmed, who by means of speeches,
books, tapes, and pamphlets prepared the way for the Islamic Revolution—
interprets colonialism by asserting the absolute opposition of the native
culture: the West is an enemy, a disease, an evil. In other instances, novelists
like the Kenyan Ngugi and the Sudanese Tayeb Salih appropriate for their
fiction such great topoi of colonial culture as the quest and the voyage into
the unknown, claiming them for their own, post-colonial purposes. Salih’s
hero in Season of Migration to the North does (and is) the reverse of what Kurtz
does (and is): the Black man journeys north into white territory.
Between classical nineteenth-century imperialism and what it gave rise to
in resistant native cultures, there is thus both a stubborn confrontation and
a crossing over in discussion, borrowing back and forth, debate. Many of the
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3 1
most interesting post-colonial writers bear their past within them — as scars
of humiliating wounds, as instigation for different practices, as potentially
revised visions of the past tending toward a new future, as urgently reinter-
pretable and redeployable experiences, in which the formerly silent native
speaks and acts on territory taken back from the empire. One sees these
aspects in Rushdie, Derek Walcott, Aim6 Cesaire, Chinua Achebe, Pablo
Neruda, and Brian Friel. And now these writers can truly read the great
colonial masterpieces, which not only misrepresented them but assumed
they were unable to read and respond direcdy to what had been written
about them, just as European ethnography presumed the natives’ incapacity
to intervene in scientific discourse about them. Let us try now to review this
new situation more fully.
et us begin by accepting the notion that although there is an irreduci-
ble subjective core to human experience, this experience is also histori-
cal and secular, it is accessible to analysis and interpretation, and — centrally
important — it is not exhausted by totalizing theories, not marked and lim-
ited by doctrinal or national lines, not confined once and for all to analytical
constructs. If one believes with Gramsci that an intellectual vocation is
socially possible as well as desirable, then it is an inadmissible contradiction
at the same time to build analyses of historical experience around exclusions,
exclusions that stipulate, for instance, that only women can understand
feminine experience, only Jews can understand Jewish suffering, only for-
merly colonial subjects can understand colonial experience.
I do not mean what people mean when they say glibly that there are two
sides to every question. The difficulty with theories of essentialism and
exclusiveness, or with barriers and sides, is that they give rise to polariza-
tions that absolve and forgive ignorance and demagogy more than they
enable knowledge. Even the most cursory look at the recent fortunes of
theories about race, the modem state, modern nationalism itself verifies this
sad truth. If you know in advance that the African or Iranian or Chinese or
Jewish or German experience is fundamentally integral, coherent, separate,
and therefore comprehensible only to Africans, Iranians, Chinese, Jews, or
Germans, you first of all posit as essential something which, I believe, is both
( iv )
Discrepant Experiences
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
historically created and the result of interpretation — namely the existence
of Africanness, Jewishness, or Germanness, or for that matter Orientalism
and Occidentalism. And second, you are likely as a consequence to defend
the essence or experience itself rather than promote full knowledge of it and
its entanglements and dependencies on other knowledges. As a result, you
will demote the different experience of others to a lesser status.
If at the outset we acknowledge the massively knotted and complex
histories of special but nevertheless overlapping and interconnected experi-
ences — of women, of Westerners, of Blacks, of national states and cultures —
there is no particular intellectual reason for granting each and all of them
an ideal and essentially separate status. Yet we would wish to preserve what
is unique about each so long as we also preserve some sense of the human
community and the actual contests that contribute to its formation, and of
which they are all a part. An excellent example of this approach is one I have
already referred to, the essays in The Invention of Tradition, essays which
consider invented traditions that are highly specialized and local (e.g., Indian
durbars and European football games) yet, even though they are very
different, share similar characteristics. The point of the book is that these
quite various practices can be read and understood together since they
belong to comparable fields of human experience, those Hobsbawm de-
scribes as attempting “to establish continuity with a suitable historic past.” 5 ’
A comparative or, better, a contrapuntal perspective is required in order
to see a connection between coronation rituals in England and the Indian
durbars of the late nineteenth century. That is, we must be able to think
through and interpret together experiences that are discrepant, each with its
particular agenda and pace of development, its own internal formations, its
internal coherence and system of external relationships, all of them co-
existing and interacting with others. Kipling's novel Kim, for example, occu-
pies a very special place in the development of the English novel and in late
Victorian society, but its picture of India exists in a deeply antithetical
relationship with the development of the movement for Indian indepen-
dence. Either the novel or the political movement represented or inter-
preted without the other misses the crucial discrepancy between the two
given to them by the actual experience of empire.
One point needs further clarification. The notion of “discrepant experi-
ences” is not intended to circumvent the problem of ideology. On the
contrary, no experience that is interpreted or reflected on can be character-
ized as immediate, just as no critic or interpreter can be entirely believed if
he or she claims to have achieved an Archimedean perspective that is subject
neither to history nor to a social setting. In juxtaposing experiences with
each other, in letting them play off each other, it is my interpretative
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33
political aim (in the broadest sense) to make concurrent those views and
experiences that are ideologically and culturally closed to each other and
that attempt to distance or suppress other views and experiences. Far from
seeking to reduce the significance of ideology, the exposure and dramatiza-
tion of discrepancy highlights its cultural importance; this enables us to
appreciate its power and understand its continuing influence.
So let us contrast two roughly contemporary early-nineteenth-century
texts (both date from the 1820s): the Description de I’Egypte in all its massive,
impressive coherence, and a comparatively slender volume, ‘Abd al-Rahman
al-Jabarti’s ‘Aja’ib al-Athar. The Description was the twenty- four-volume ac-
count of Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt, produced by the team of French
scientists which he took with him. ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Jabarti was an Egyp-
tian notable and 'alim, or religious leader, who witnessed and lived through
the French expedition. Take first the following passage from the general
introduction to the Description written by Jean-Baptiste-Joseph Fourier:
Placed between Africa and Asia, and communicating easily with
Europe, Egypt occupies the center of the ancient continent This coun-
try presents only great memories; it is the homeland of the arts and
conserves innumerable monuments; its principal temples and the pal-
aces inhabited by its kings still exist, even though its least ancient
edifices had already been built by the time of the Trojan War. Homer,
Lycurgus, Solon, Pythagoras, and Plato all went to Egypt to study the
sciences, religion, and the laws. Alexander founded an opulent city
there, which for a long time enjoyed commercial supremacy and which
witnessed Pompey, Caesar, Mark Antony, and Augustus deciding be-
tween them the fate of Rome and that of the entire world. It is therefore
proper for this country to attract the attention of illustrious princes who
rule the destiny of nations.
No considerable power was ever amassed by any nation, whether in
the West or in Asia, that did not also turn that nation toward Egypt,
which was regarded in some measure as its natural lot 38
Fourier speaks as the rationalizing mouthpiece of Napoleon’s invasion of
Egypt in 1798. The resonances of the great names he summons, the placing,
the grounding, the normalizing of foreign conquest within the cultural orbit
of European existence — all this transforms conquest from a clash between
a conquering and a defeated army into a much longer, slower process,
obviously more acceptable to the European sensibility enfolded within its
own cultural assumptions than the shattering experience could have been
for an Egyptian who endured the conquest
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34 '
At almost the same time Jabarti records in his book a series of anguished
and perceptive reflections on the conquest; he writes as an embattled reli-
gious notable recording the invasion of his country and the destruction of
his society.
This year is the beginning of a period marked by great battles; serious
results were suddenly produced in a frightening manner; miseries mul-
tiplied without end, the course of things was troubled, the common
meaning of life was corrupted and destruction overtook it and the
devastation was general. [Then, as a good Muslim, he turns back to
reflect on himself and his people.] “God,” says the Koran (xi, 9) “does
not unjustly ruin cities whose inhabitants are just.” 39
The French expedition was accompanied by a whole team of scientists
whose job it was to survey Egypt as it had never been surveyed before — the
result was the gigantic Description itself — but Jabarti has eyes for, and only
appreciates, the facts of power, whose meaning he senses as constituting a
punishment for Egypt French power bears upon his existence as a con-
quered Egyptian, an existence for him compressed into that of a subjugated
particle, barely able to do more than record the French army’s comings and
goings, its imperious decrees, its overwhelmingly harsh measures, its awe-
some and seemingly unchecked ability to do what it wants according to
imperatives that Jabarti’s compatriots could not affect The discrepancy
between the politics producing the Description and that ofjabarti’s immediate
response is stark, and highlights the terrain they contest so unequally.
Now it is not difficult to follow out the results ofjabarti’s attitude, and
generations of historians have in fact done this, as I shall do to some extent
later in this book. His experience produced a deep-seated anti-Westernism
that is a persistent theme of Egyptian, Arab, Islamic, and Third World
history; one can also find in Jabarti the seeds of Islamic reformism which, as
promulgated later by the great Azhar cleric and reformer Muhammad ‘Abdu
and his remarkable contemporary Jamal al-Din al-Afghani, argued either
that Islam had better modernize in order to compete with the West, or that
it should return to its Meccan roots the better to combat the West; in
addition, Jabarti speaks at an early moment in the history of the immense
wave of national self-consciousness that culminated in Egyptian indepen-
dence, in Nasserite theory and practice, and in contemporary movements of
so-called Islamic fundamentalism.
Nevertheless historians have not so readily read the development of
French culture and history in terms of Napoleon’s Egyptian expedition.
(The same is true of the British reign in India, a reign of such immense range
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V
and wealth as to have become a fact of nature for members of the imperial
culture.) Yet what later scholars and critics say about the European texts
literally made possible by the Description's consolidation of the conquest of
the Orient is also, interestingly, a somewhat attenuated and highly implicit
function of that earlier contest. To write today about Nerval and Flaubert,
whose work depended so massively upon the Orient, is to work in territory
originally charted by the French imperial victory, to follow in its steps, and
to extend them into 150 years of European experience, although in saying
this one once again highlights the symbolic discrepancy between Jabarti and
Fourier. The imperial conquest was not a one-time tearing of the veil, but
a continually repeated, institutionalized presence in French life, where the
response to the silent and incorporated disparity between French and subju-
gated cultures took on a variety of forms.
The asymmetry is striking. In one instance, we assume that the better part
of history in colonial territories was a function of the imperial intervention;
in the other, there is an equally obstinate assumption that colonial undertak-
ings were marginal and perhaps even eccentric to the central activities of the
great metropolitan cultures. Thus, the tendency in anthropology, history,
and cultural studies in Europe and the United States is to treat the whole
of world history as viewable by a kind of Western super-subject, whose
historicizing and disciplinary rigor either takes away or, in the post-colonial
period, restores history to people and cultures “without” history. Few full-
scale critical studies have focussed on the relationship between modern
Western imperialism and its culture, the occlusion of that deeply symbiotic
relationship being a result of the relationship itself More particularly, the
extraordinary formal and ideological dependence of the great French and
English realistic novels on the facts of empire has also never been studied
from a general theoretical standpoint. These elisions and denials are all
reproduced, I believe, in the strident journalistic debates about decoloniza-
tion, in which imperialism is repeatedly on record as saying, in effect, You
are what you are because of us; when we left, you reverted to your deplor-
able state; know that or you will know nothing, for certainly there is little
to be known about imperialism that might help either you or us in the
present.
Were the disputed value of knowledge about imperialism merely a con-
troversy about methodology or academic perspectives in cultural history, we
would be justified in regarding it as not really serious, though perhaps worth
notice. In fact, however, we are talking about a compellingly important and
interesting configuration in the world of power and nations. There is no
question, for example, that in the past decade the extraordinarily intense
reversion to tribal and religious sentiments all over the world has accompa-
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3 6
nied and deepened many of the discrepancies among polities that have
continued since — if they were not actually created by — the period of high
European imperialism. Moreover, the various struggles for dominance
among states, nationalisms, ethnic groups, regions, and cultural entities have
conducted and amplified a manipulation of opinion and discourse, a produc-
tion and consumption of ideological media representations, a simplification
and reduction of vast complexities into easy currency, the easier to deploy
and exploit them in the interest of state policies. In all of this intellectuals
have played an important role, nowhere in my opinion more crucial and
more compromised than in the overlapping region of experience and culture
that is colonialism’s legacy where the politics of secular interpretation is
carried on for very high stakes. Naturally the preponderance of power has
been on the side of the self-constituted “Western” societies and the public
intellectuals who serve as their apologists and ideologists.
But there have been interesting responses to this imbalance in many
formerly colonized states. Recent work on India and Pakistan in particular
(e.g., Subaltern Studies) has highlighted the complicities between the post-
colonial security state and the intellectual nationalist elite; Arab, African,
and Latin American oppositional intellectuals have produced similar critical
studies. But I shall focus here more closely on the unfortunate convergence
that uncritically propels the Western powers into action against ex-colonial
peoples. During the time I have been writing this book, the crisis caused by
Iraq’s invasion and annexation of Kuwait has been in foil flower hundreds
of thousands of the United States’ troops, planes, ships, tanks, missiles
arrived in Saudi Arabia; Iraq appealed to the Arab world (badly split among
the United States’ supporters like Mubarak of Egypt, the Saudi royal family,
the remaining Gulf sheikhs, Moroccans, and outright opponents like Libya
and Sudan, or caught-in-the-middle powers like Jordan and Palestine) for
help; the United Nations was divided between sanctions and the United
States’ blockade; and in the end the United States prevailed and a devastat-
ing war was fought. Two central ideas clearly were held over from the past
and still hold sway: one was the great power’s right to safeguard its distant
interests even to the point of military invasion; the second was that lesser
powers were also lesser peoples, with lesser rights, morals, claims.
Perceptions and political attitudes molded and manipulated by the media
were significant here. In the West, representations of the Arab world ever
since the 1967 War have been crude, reductionist, coarsely racialist, as much
critical literature in Europe and the United States has ascertained and
verified. Yet films and television shows portraying Arabs as sleazy “camel-
jockeys,” terrorists, and offensively wealthy “sheikhs” pour forth anyway.
When the media mobilized behind President Bush’s instructions to preserve
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37
the American way of life and to roll Iraq back, little was said or shown about
the political, social, cultural actualities of the Arab world (many of them
deeply influenced by the United States), actualities that made possible both
the appalling figure of Saddam Hussein and at the same time a complex set
of other, radically different configurations — the Arabic novel (whose pre-
eminent practitioner, Naguib Mahfouz, won the 1988 Nobel Prize) and the
many institutions surviving in what was left of civil society. While it is
certainly true that the media is far better equipped to deal with caricature
and sensation than with the slower processes of culture and society, the
deeper reason for these misconceptions is the imperial dynamic and above
all its separating, essendalizing, dominating, and reactive tendencies.
Self-definition is one of the activities practiced by all cultures: it has a
rhetoric, a set' of occasions and authorities (national feasts,’ for example, times
of crisis, founding fathers, basic texts, and so on), and a familiarity all its own.
Yet in a world tied together as never before by the exigencies of electronic
communication, trade, travel, environmental and regional conflicts that can
expand with tremendous speed, the assertion of identity is by no means a
mere ceremonial matter. What strikes me as especially dangerous is that it
can mobilize passions atavistically, throwing people back to an earlier impe-
rial time when the West and its opponents championed and even embodied
virtues designed not as virtues so to speak but for war.
One perhaps trivial example of this atavism occurred in a column written
for The Wall Street Journal on May 2, 1989, by Bernard Lewis, one of the
senior Orientalists working in the United States. Lewis was entering the
debate about changing the “Western canon.” To the students and professors
at Stanford University who had voted to modify the curriculum to include
texts by more non-Europeans, Women, and so on, Lewis — speaking as an
authority on Islam — took the extreme position that “if Western culture does
indeed go a number of things would go with it and others would come in
their place.” No one had said anything so ludicrous as “Western culture
must go,” but Lewis’s argument, focussed on much grander matters than
strict accuracy, lumbered forward with the remarkable proposition that
since modifications in the reading list would be equivalent to the demise of
Western culture, such subjects (he named them specifically) as the restora-
tion of slavery, polygamy, and child marriage would ensue. To this amazing
thesis Lewis added that “curiosity about other cultures,” which he believes
is unique to the West, would also come to an end.
This argument, symptomatic and even a trifle comic, is an indication not
only of a highly inflated sense of Western exclusivity in cultural accomplish-
ment, but also of a tremendously limited, almost hysterically antagonistic
view of the rest of the world. To say that without the West, slavery and
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
bigamy would return is to foreclose the possibility that any advance over
tyranny and barbarism could or did occur outside the. West Lewis’s argu-
ment has the effect of driving the non-Westerner into a violent rage or, with
equally unedifying consequences, into boasting about the achievements of
non-Westem cultures. Rather than affirming the interdependence of various
histories on one another, and the necessary interaction of contemporary
societies 'with one another, the rhetorical separation of cultures assured a
murderous imperial contest between them — the sorry tale is repeated again
and again.
Another example occurred in late 1986, during the broadcast and subse-
quent discussion of a television documentary called Tbe Africans. Originally
commissioned and mostly funded by the BBC, this series was written and
narrated by a distinguished scholar and professor of political science at the
University of Michigan, Ali Mazrui, a Kenyan and a Muslim, whose compe-
tence and credibility as a first-rank academic authority were unquestioned.
Mazrui’s series had two premises: one, that for the first time in a history
dominated by Western representations of Africa (to use the phrase from
Christopher Miller’s book Blank Darkness, by a discourse that is thoroughly
Africanist in every instance and inflection) 40 an African was representing
himself and Africa before a Western audience, precisely that audience whose
societies for several hundred years had pillaged, colonized, enslaved Africa;
second, that African history was made up of three elements or, in Mazrui’s
language, concentric circles: the native African experience, the experience
of Islam, and the experience of imperialism.
For a start, the National Endowment for the Humanities removed its
financial support for the broadcast of the documentaries, although the series
ran on PBS anyway. Then Tbe New York Times, the leading American
newspaper, ran consecutive attacks on the series in articles (September 14,
October 9 and 26, 1986) by the (then) television correspondent John Corry.
To describe Corry’s pieces as insensate or semi-hysterical would not be an
exaggeration. Mostly Corry accused Mazrui personally of “ideological”
exclusions and emphases, for example, that he nowhere mentioned Israel (in
a program about African history Israel may have appeared to Mazrui as not
relevant) and that he vastly exaggerated the evils of Western colonialism.
Corry’s attack especially singled out Mazrui’s “moralistic and political ordi-
nates,” a peculiar euphemism implying that Mazrui was little more than an
unscrupulous propagandist, the better to be able to challenge Mazrui’s
figures about such things as the number of people who died in building the
Suez Canal, the number killed during the Algerian war of liberation, and so
on. Lurking near the turbulent and disorderly surface of Corry’s prose was
the (to him) disturbing and unacceptable reality of Mazrui’s performance
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itself Here at last was an African on prime-time television, in the West,
daring to accuse the West of what it had done, thus reopening a file consid-
ered closed. That Mazrui also spoke well of Islam, that he showed a com-
mand of “Western” historical method and political rhetoric, that, in fine, he
appeared as a convincing model of a real human being — all these ran
contrary to the reconstituted imperial ideology for which Corry was, per-
haps inadvertently, speaking. At its heart lay the axiom that non-Europeans
should not represent their views of European and American history as those
histories impinged on the colonies; if they did, they had to be very firmly
resisted.
The entire legacy of what can metaphorically be called the tension
between Kipling, who finally saw only the politics of empire, and Fanon,
who tried to look past the nationalist assertions succeeding classical imperi-
alism, has been disastrous. Let us allow that, given the discrepancy between
European colonial power and that of the colonized societies, there was a
kind of historical necessity by which colonial pressure created anti-colonial
resistance. What concerns me is the way in which, generations later, the
conflict continues in an impoverished and for that reason all the more
dangerous form, thanks to an uncritical alignment between intellectuals and
institutions of power which reproduces the pattern of an earlier imperialist
history. This results, as I noted earlier, in an intellectual politics of blame
and a drastic reduction in the range of material proposed for attention and
controversy by public intellectuals and cultural historians.
What is the inventory of the various strategies that might be employed to
widen, expand, and deepen our awareness of the way the past and present
of the imperial encounter interact with each other? This seems to me a
question of immediate importance, and indeed explains the idea behind this
book. Let me very briefly illustrate my idea with two examples that are
usefully presented, I think, in anecdotal form; in subsequent pages 1 shall
present a more formal and methodological account of the issues and of the
cultural interpretations and politics that follow.
A few years ago I had a chance encounter with an Arab Christian clergy-
man who had come to the United States, he told me, on an exceedingly
urgent and unpleasant mission. As I myself happened to be a member by
birth of the small but significant minority he served — Arab Christian Protes-
tants — I was most interested in what he had to say. Since the 1860s there has
been a Protestant community comprising a few r sects scattered throughout
the Levant, largely the result of the imperial competition for converts and
constituents in the Ottoman Empire, principally in Syria, Lebanon, and
Palestine. In time of course these congregations — Presbyterian, Evangelical,
Episcopalian, Baptist, among others — acquired their own identities and tra-
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
ditions, their own institutions, all of which without exception played an
honorable role during the period of the Arab Renaissance.
Roughly iio years later, however, the very same European and American
synods and churches who had authorized and indeed sustained the early
missionary efforts appeared, quite without warning, to be reconsidering the
matter. It had become clear to them that Eastern Christianity was really
constituted by the Greek Orthodox Church (from which, it should be noted,
the overwhelming majority of Levantine converts to Protestantism came: the
nineteenth-century Christian missionaries were totally unsuccessful in con-
verting either Muslims or Jews). Now, in the 1980s, the Western principals
of the Arab Protestant communities were encouraging their acolytes to
return to the Orthodox fold. There was talk of withdrawing financial sup-
port, of disbanding the churches and schools, of cancelling the whole thing
in a sense. The missionary authorities had made a mistake one hundred
years ago in severing Eastern Christians from the main church. Now they
should go back.
To my clergyman friend this was a truly drastic eventuality; were it not
for the genuinely aggrieved sensibility involved, one might have considered
the whole matter merely a cruel joke. What struck me most strongly,
however, was the way in which my friend put his argument. This was what
he was in America to say to his ecclesiastical principals: he could understand
the new doctrinal point being put forward, that modem ecumenism ought
generally to go in the direction of dissolving small sects and preserving the
dominant community, rather than encouraging these sects to remain inde-
pendent from the main church. That you could discuss. But what seemed
horrendously imperialist and entirely of the realm of power politics was, he
said, the total disregard with which over a century of Arab Protestant
experience was simply scratched off as if it had never happened. They do
not seem to realize, my gravely affected friend told me, that while once we
were their’ converts and students, we have in fact been their partners for well
over a century. We have trusted them and our own experience. We have
developed our own integrity and lived our own Arab Protestant identity
within our sphere, but also spiritually within theirs. How do they expea us
to efface our modern history, which is an autonomous one? How can they
say that the mistake they made a century ago can be rectified today by a
stroke of the pen in New York or London?
One should note that this touching story concerns an experience of
imperialism that is essentially one of sympathy and congruence, not of
antagonism, resentment, or resistance. The appeal by one of the parties was
to the value of a mutual experience. True, there had once been a principal
and a subordinate, but there had also been dialogue and communication.
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One can see in the story, I think, the power to give or withhold attention,
a power utterly essential to interpretation and to politics. The implicit
argument made by the Western missionary authorities was that the Arabs
had gotten something valuable out of what had been given them, but in this
relationship of historical dependence and subordination, all the giving went
one way, the value was mainly on one side. Mutuality was considered to be
basically impossible.
This is a parable about the area of attention, greater or lesser in size, more
or less equal in value and quality, that is furnished for interpretation by the
post-imperial situation.
The second general point 1 want to make can also be made by example.
One of the canonical topics of modem intellectual history has been the
development of dominant discourses and disciplinary traditions in the main
fields of scientific, social, and cultural inquiry. Without exceptions I know
of, the paradigms for this topic have been drawn from what are considered
exclusively Western sources. Foucault’s work is one instance and so, in
another domain, is Raymond Williams’s. In the main I am in considerable
sympathy with the genealogical discoveries of these two formidable scholars,
and greatly indebted to them. Yet for both the imperial experience is quite
irrelevant, a theoretical oversight that is the norm in Western cultural and
scientific disciplines except in occasional studies of the history of anthropol-
ogy — like Johannes Fabian’s Time and the Other and Talal Asad’s Anthropology
and the Colonial Encounter — or the development of sociology, such as Brian
Turner’s Marx and the End of Orientalism.* 1 Part of the impulse behind what
I tried to do in my book Orientalism was to show the dependence of what
appeared to be detached and apolitical cultural disciplines upon a quite
sordid history of imperialist ideology and colonialist practice.
But I will confess that I was also consciously trying to express dissatisfac-
tion at the consolidated walls of denial that had been built around policy
studies passing themselves off as uncontroversial, essentially pragmatic
scholarly enterprises. Whatever effect my book achieved would not have
occurred had there not also been some readiness on the part of a younger
generation of scholars, in the West and in the formerly colonized world, to
take a fresh look at their collective histories. Despite the acrimony and
recriminations that followed their efforts, many important revisionary works
have appeared. (Actually, they started to appear as early as one hundred
years ago, during the resistance to empire all through the non- Western
world.) Many of these more recent works, which I discuss elsewhere in this
book, are valuable because they get beyond the reified polarities of East
versus West, and in an intelligent and concrete way attempt to understand
the heterogenous and often odd developments that used to elude the so-
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
called world historians as well as the colonial Orientalists, who have tended
to herd immense amounts of material under simple and all-encompassing
rubrics. Examples worth mentioning include Peter Gran’s study on the
Islamic roots of modern capitalism in Egypt, Judith Tucker’s research on
Egyptian family and village structure under the influence of imperialism,
Hanna Batatu’s monumental work on the formation of modern state institu-
tions in the Arab world, and S. H. Alatas’s great study The Myth of the Lazy
Native . 1 ' 2
Yet few works have dealt with the more complex genealogy of contempo-
rary culture and ideology. One notable effort has been the recently pub-
lished work of a Columbia doctoral student from India, a trained scholar and
teacher of English literature whose historical and cultural research has, I
think, uncovered the political origins of modern English studies and located
them to a significant extent in the system of colonial education imposed on
natives in nineteenth-cencury India. A great deal about Gauri Viswanathan’s
work, The Masks of Conquest, has unusual interest, but her central point
alone is important: that what has conventionally been thought of as a disci-
pline created entirely by and for British youth was first created by early-
nineteenth-century colonial administrators for the ideological pacification
and re-formation of a potentially rebellious Indian population, and then
imported into England for a very different but related use there . 43 The
evidence, I think, is incontrovertible and free from “nadvism,” an especially
besetting hobble of most post-colonial work. Most important, though, this
kind of study maps out a varied and intertwined archeology for knowledge
whose actualities lie considerably below the surface hitherto assumed to
be the true locus, and textuality, of what we study as literature, history, cul-
ture, and philosophy. The implications are vast, and they pull us away
from rouunized polemics on the superiority of Western over non-Western
models.
There is no way of dodging the truth that the present ideological and
political moment is a difficult one for the alternative norms for intellectual
work that I propose in this book. There is also no escape from the pressing
and urgent calls many of us are likely to respond to from embatded causes
and turbulent fields of battle. The ones that involve me as an Arab are, alas,
perfect cases in point, and they are exacerbated by pressures exerted on me
as an American. Nevertheless, a resistant, perhaps ulumately subjective
component of oppositional energy resides in the intellectual or critical
vocation itself, and one has to rely on mobilizing this, particularly when
collective passions seem mostly harnessed to movements for patriotic domi-
nation and nationalist coercion, even in studies and disciplines that claim to
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Connecting Empire to Secular Interpretation
43
be humanistic. In standing up to and challenging their power, we should try
to enlist w'hat we can truly comprehend of other cultures and periods.
For the trained scholar of comparative literature, a field whose origin and
purpose is to move beyond insularity and provincialism and to see several
cultures and literatures together, contrapuntally, there is an already consid-
erable investment in precisely this kind of antidote to reductive nationalism
and uncritical dogma: after all, the constitution and early aims of compara-
tive literature were to get a perspective beyond one’s own nation, to see
some sort of whole instead of the defensive little patch offered by one’s own
culture, literature, and history. I suggest that we look first at what compara-
tive literature originally was, as vision and as practice; ironically, as we shall
see, the study of “comparative literature” originated in the period of high
European imperialism and is irrecusably linked to it. Then w r e can draw out
of comparative literature’s subsequent trajectory a better sense of what it can
do in modern culture and politics, which imperialism continues to influence.
( v )
Connecting Empire to Secular Interpretation
F rom long before World War Two until the early 1970s, the main
tradition of comparative-literature studies in Europe and the United
States was heavily dominated by a style of scholarship that has now almost
disappeared. The main feature of this older style was that it was scholarship
principally, and not what we have come to call criticism. No one today is
trained as were Erich Auerbach and Leo Spitzer, two of the great German
cOmparadsts who found refuge in the United States as a result of fascism: this
is as much a quantitative as a qualitative fact. Whereas today’s comparatist
will present his or her qualifications in Romanticism between 1795 and 1830
in France, England, and Germany, yesterday’s comparatist was more likely,
first, to have studied an earlier period; second, to have done a long appren-
ticeship with various philological and scholarly experts in various universi-
ties in various fields over many years; third, to have a secure grounding in
all or most of the classical languages, the early European vernaculars, and
their literatures. The early-twentieth-century comparatist was a pbilolog
who, as Francis Fergusson put it in a review of Auerbach’s Mimesis, was so
learned and had so much stamina as to make “our most intransigent ‘schol-
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
ars’ — those who pretend with the straightest faces to scientific rigor and
exhaustiveness — [appear to be] timid and relaxed.” 44
Behind such scholars was an even longer tradition of humanistic learning
that derived from that efflorescence of secular anthropology — which in-
cluded a revolution in the philological disciplines— we associate with the
late eighteenth century and with such figures as Vico, Herder, Rousseau, and
the brothers Schlegel. And underlying their work was the belief that mankind
formed a marvelous, almost symphonic whole whose progress and forma-
tions, again as a whole, could be studied exclusively as a concerted and
secular historical experience, not as an exemplification of the divine. Be-
cause “man” has made history, there was a special hermeneutical way of
studying history that differed in intent as well as method from the natural
sciences. These great Enlightenment insights became widespread, and were
accepted in Germany, France, Italy, Russia, Switzerland, and subsequently,
England.
It is not a vulgarization of history to remark that a major reason why such
a view of human culture became current in Europe and America in several
different forms during the two centuries between 1745 and 1945 was the
striking rise of nationalism during the same period. The interrelationships
between scholarship (or literature, for that matter) and the institutions of
nationalism have not been as seriously studied as they should, but it is
nevertheless evident that when most European thinkers celebrated human-
ity or culture they were principally celebrating ideas and values they as-
cribed to their own national culture, or to Europe as distinct from the Orient,
Africa, and even the Americas. What partly animated my study of Oriental-
ism was my critique of the way in which the alleged universalism of fields
such as the classics (not to mention historiography, anthropology, and soci-
ology) was Eurocentric in the extreme, as if other literatures and societies
had either an inferior or a transcended value. (Even the comparatists trained
in the dignified tradition that produced Curtius and Auerbach showed little
interest in Asian, African, or Latin American texts.) And as the national and
international competition between European countries increased during the
nineteenth cenrury, so too did the level of intensity in competition between
one national scholarly interpretative tradition and another. Ernest Renan’s
polemics on Germany and the Jewish tradition are a well-known example
of this.
Yet this narrow, often strident nationalism was in fact counteracted by a
more generous cultural vision represented by the intellectual ancestors of
Curtius and Auerbach, scholars whose ideas emerged in pre-imperial Ger-
many (perhaps as compensation for the political unification eluding the
country), and, a little later, in France. These thinkers took nationalism to
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Connecting Empire to Secular Interpretation 45
be a transitory, finally secondary matter what mattered far more was the
concert of peoples and spirits that transcended the shabby political realm
of bureaucracy, armies, customs barriers, and xenophobia. Out of this catho-
lic tradition, to which European (as opposed to national) thinkers appealed
in times of severe conflict, came the idea that the comparative study of
literature could furnish a trans-national, even trans-human perspective on
literary performance. Thus the idea of comparative literature not only
expressed universality and the kind of understanding gained by philologists
about language families, but also symbolized the crisis-free serenity of an
almost ideal realm. Standing above small-minded political affairs were both
a kind of anthropological Eden in which men and women happily produced
something called literature, and a world that Matthew Arnold and his
disciples designated as that of “culture,” where only “the best that is thought
and known” could be admitted.
Goethe’s idea of Weltliteratur — a concept that waffled between the notion
of “great books” and a vague synthesis of all the world’s literatures — was
very important to professional scholars of comparative literature in the early
twentieth century. But still, as I have suggested, its practical meaning and
operating ideology were that, so far as literature and culture were con-
cerned, Europe led the way and was the main subject of interest. In the world
of great scholars such as Karl Vossler and De Sanctis, it is most specifically
Romania that makes intelligible and provides a center for the enormous
grouping of literatures produced world-wide; Romania underpins Europe,
just as (in a curiously regressive way) the Church and the Holy Roman
Empire guarantee the integrity of the core European literatures. At a still
deeper level, it is from the Christian Incarnation that Western realistic
literature as we know it emerges. This tenaciously advanced thesis ex-
plained Dante’s supreme importance to Auerbach, Curtius, Vossler, and
Spitzer.
To speak of comparative literature therefore was to speak of the interac-
tion of world literatures with one another, but the field was epistemologi-
cally organized as a sort of hierarchy, with Europe and its Latin Christian
literatures at its center and top. When Auerbach, in a justly famous essay
entitled “Philologie der Weltliteratur, ” written after World War Two, takes
note of how many “other” literary languages and literatures seemed to have
emerged (as if from nowhere: he makes no mention of either colonialism or
decolonization), he expresses more anguish and fear than pleasure at the
prospect of what he seems so reluctant to acknowledge. Romania is under
threat. 45
Certainly American practitioners and academic departments found this
European pattern a congenial one to emulate. The first American depart-
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
ment of comparative literature was established in 1891 at Columbia Univer-
sity, as was the first journal of comparative literature. Consider what George
Edward Woodberry — the department’s first chaired professor — had to say
about his field:
The parts of the world draw together, and with them the parts of
knowledge, slowly knitting into that one intellectual state which, above
the sphere of politics and with no more institutional machinery than
tribunals of jurists and congresses of gentlemen, will be at last the true
bond of all the world. The modern scholar shares more than other
citizens in the benefits of this enlargement and intercommunication,
this age equally of expansion and concentration on the vast scale, this
infinitely extended and intimate commingling of nations with one
another and with the past; his ordinary mental experience includes
more of race-memory and of race- imagination than belonged to his
predecessors, and his outlook before and after is on greater horizons; he
lives in a larger world — is, in fact, born no longer to the freedom of a
city merely, however noble, but to that new citizenship in the rising
state which — the obscurer or brighter dream of all great scholars from
Plato to Goethe — is without frontiers or race or force, but there is
reason supreme. The emergence and growth of the new study known
as Comparative Literature are incidental to the coming of this larger
world and the entrance of scholars upon its work: the study will run its
course, and together with other converging elements goes to its goal in
the unity of mankind found in the spiritual unities of science, art and
love. 46
Such rhetoric uncomplicatedly and naively resonates with the influence of
Croce and De Sanctis, and also with the earlier ideas of Wilhelm von
Humboldt. But there is a certain quaintness in Woodberry’s ‘‘tribunals of
jurists and congresses of gentlemen,” more than a little belied by the actuali-
ties of life in the “larger world” he speaks of. In a time of the greatest
Western imperial hegemony in history, Woodberry manages to overlook
that dominating form of political unity in order to celebrate a still higher,
strictly ideal unity. He is unclear about how “the spiritual unities of science,
art and love” are to deal with less pleasant realities, much less how “spiritual
unities” can be expected to overcome the facts of materiality, power, and
political division.
Academic work in comparative literature carried with it the notion that
Europe and the United States together were the center of the world, not
simply by virtue of their political positions, but also because their literatures
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Connecting Empire to Secular Interpretation 47
were the ones most worth studying. When Europe succumbed to fascism and
when the United States benefitted so richly from the many emigrd scholars
who came to it, understandably little of their sense of crisis took root with
them. Mimesis, for example, written while Auerbach was in exile from Nazi
Europe in Istanbul, was not simply ap exercise in textual explication, but —
he says in his 1952 essay to which I have just referred — an act of civilizational
survival. It had seemed to him that his mission as a comparatist was to
present, perhaps for the last time, the complex evolution of European
literature in all its variety from Homer to Virginia Woolf. Curtius’s book on
the Latin Middle Ages was composed out of the same driven fear. Yet how
little of that spirit survived in the thousands of academic literary scholars
who were influenced by these two books! Mimesis was praised for being a
remarkable work of rich analysis, but the sense of its mission died in the
often trivial uses made of it. 47 Finally in the late 1950s Sputnik came along,
and transformed the study of foreign languages — and of comparative litera-
ture — into fields directly affecting national security. The National Defense
Education Act 48 promoted the field and, with it, alas, an even more compla-
cent ethnocentrism and covert Cold Warriorism than Woodberry could
have imagined.
As Mimesis immediately reveals, however, the notion of Western litera-
ture that lies at the very core of comparative study centrally highlights,
dramatizes, and celebrates a certain idea of history, and at the same time
obscures the fundamental geographical and political reality empowering
that idea. The , idea of European or Western literary history contained in it
and the other scholarly works of comparative literature is essentially idealis-
tic and, in an unsystematic way, Hegelian. Thus the principle of develop-
ment by which Romania is said to have acquired dominance is incorporative
and synthetic. More and more reality is included in a literature that expands
and elaborates from the medieval chronicles to the great edifices of nine-
teenth-century narrative fiction — in the works of Stendhal, Balzac, Zola,
Dickens, Proust. Each work in the progression represents a synthesis of
problematic elements that disturb the basic Christian order so memorably
laid out in the Divine Comedy. Class, political upheavals, shifts in economic
patterns and organization, war. all these subjects, for great authors like
Cervantes, Shakespeare, Montaigne, as well as for a host of lesser writers, are
enfolded within recurringly renewed structures, visions, stabilities, all of
them attesting to the abiding dialectical order represented by Europe itself.
The salutary vision of a “world literature” that acquired a redemptive
status in the twentieth century coincides with what theorists of colonial
geography also articulated. In the writings of Halford Mackinder, George
Chisolm, Georges Hardy, Leroy-Beaulieu, and Lucien Fevre, a much
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
franker appraisal of the world system appears, equally metrocentric and
imperial; but instead of history alone, now both empire and actual geograph-
ical space collaborate to produce a “world-empire” commanded by Europe.
But in this geographically articulated vision (much ofit based, as Paul Carter
shows in The Road to Botany Bay, on the cartographic results of actual geo-
graphical exploration and conquest) there is no less strong a commitment to
the belief that European pre-eminence is natural, the culmination of what
Chisolm calls various “historical advantages” that allowed Europe to over-
ride the “natural advantages" of the more fertile, wealthy, and accessible
regions it controlled. 49 Fevre’s La Terre et 1 ‘evolution humaitie (1922), a vigorous
and integral encyclopedia, matches Woodberry for its scope and utopianism.
To their audience in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the
great geographical synthesizers offered technical explanations for ready
political actualities. Europe did command the world; the imperial map did
license the cultural vision. To us, a century later, the coincidence or
similarity between one vision of a world system and the other, between
geography and literary history, seems interesting but problematic. What
should we do with this similarity?
First of all, I believe, it needs articulation and activation, which can only
come about if we take serious account of the present, and notably of the
dismantling of the classical empires and the new independence of dozens of
formerly colonized peoples and territories. We need to see that the contem-
porary global setting — overlapping territories, intertwined histories — was
already prefigured and inscribed in the coincidences and convergences
among geography, culture, and history that were so important to the pio-
neers of comparative literature. Then we can grasp in a new and more
dynamic way both the idealist historicism which fuelled the comparatist
“world literature” scheme and the concretely imperial world map of the
same moment
But that cannot be done without accepting that what is common to both
is an elaboration of power. The genuinely profound scholarship of the
people who believed in and practiced Wekliteratur i mplied the extraordinary
privilege of an observer located in the West who could actually survey the
world’s literary output with a kind of sovereign detachment. Orientalists and
other specialists about the non-European world — anthropologists, histori-
ans, philologists — had that power, and, as I have tried to show elsewhere, it
often went hand in glove with a consciously undertaken imperial enterprise.
We must articulate these various sovereign dispositions and see their com-
mon methodology.
An explicitly geographical model is provided in Gramsci’s essay Some
Aspects of the Southern Question. Under-read and under-analyzed, this study is
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Connecting Empire to Secular Interpretation
49
the only sustained piece of political and cultural analysis Gramsci wrote
(although he never finished it); it addresses the geographical conundrum
posed for action and analysis by his comrades as to how to think about, plan
for, and study southern Italy, given that its social disintegration made it seem
incomprehensible yet paradoxically crucial to an understanding of the north.
Gramsci’s brilliant analysis goes, I think, beyond its tactical relevance to
Italian politics in 1926, for it provides a culmination to his journalism before
1926 and also a prelude to The Prison Notebooks, in which he gave, as his
towering counterpart Lukacs did not, paramount focus to the territorial,
spatial, geographical foundations of social life.
Lukacs belongs to the Hegelian tradition of Marxism, Gramsci to a
Vichian, Crocean departure from it For Lukacs the central problematic in
his major work through History and Class Consciousness (1923) is temporality;
for Gramsci, as even a cursory examination of his conceptual vocabulary
immediately reveals, social history and actuality are grasped in geographical
terms — such words as “terrain,” “territory,” “blocks,” and “region” predomi-
nate. In The Southern Question, Gramsci not only is at pains to show that the
division between the northern and southern regions of Italy is basic to the
challenge of what to do politically about the national working-class move-
ment at a moment of impasse, but also is fastidious in describing the peculiar
topography of the south, remarkable, as he says, for the striking contrast
between the large undifferentiated mass of peasants on the one hand, and the
presence of “big” landowners, important publishing houses, and distin-
guished cultural formations on the other. Croce himself, a most impressive
and notable figure in Italy, is seen by Gramsci with characteristic shrewdness
as a southern philosopher who finds it easier to relate to Europe and to Plato
than to his own crumbling meridional environment.
The problem therefore is how to connect the south, whose poverty and
vast labor pool are inertly vulnerable to northern economic policies and
powers, with a north that is dependent on it. Gramsci formulates the answer
in ways that-forecast his celebrated animadversions on the intellectual in the
Quademi: he considers Piero Gobetti, who as an intellectual understood the
need for connecting the northern proletariat with the southern peasantry, a
strategy that stood in stark contrast with the careers of Croce and Guistino
Fortunato, and who linked north and south by virtue of his capacity for
organizing culture. His work “posed the Southern question on a terrain
different from the traditional one [which regarded the south simply as a
backward region of Italy] by introducing into it the proletariat of the
North.” 50 But this introduction could not occur, Gramsci continues, unless
one remembered that intellectual work is slower, works according to more
extended calendars than that of any other social group. Culture cannot be
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
looked at as an immediate fact but has to be seen (as he was to say in the
Quademi ) sub specie aetemitatis. Much time elapses before new cultural for-
mations emerge, and intellectuals, who depend on long years of preparation,
action, and tradition, are necessary to the process.
Gramsci also understands that in the extended time span during which
the coral-like formation of a culture occurs, one needs “breaks of an organic
kind.” Gobetti represents one such break, a fissure that opened up within the
cultural structures that supported and occluded the north-south discrepancy
for so long in Italian history. Gramsci regards Gobetti with evident warmth,
appreciation, and cordiality as an individual, but his political and social
significance for Gramsci’s analysis of the southern question — and it is appro-
priate that the unfinished essay ends abruptly with this consideration of
Gobetti — is that he accentuates the need for a* social formation to develop,
elaborate, build upon the break instituted by his work, and by his insistence
that intellectual effort itself furnishes the link between disparate, apparently
autonomous regions of human history.
What we might call the Gobetti factor functions like an animating con-
nective that expresses and represents the relationship between the develop-
ment of comparative literature and the emergence of imperial geography,
and does so dynamically and organically. To say of both discourses merely
that they are imperialist is to say little about where and how they take place.
Above all it leaves out what makes it possible for us to articulate them
together, as an ensemble, as having a relationship that is more than coinciden-
tal, conjunctural, mechanical. For this we must look at the domination of the
non-European world from the perspective of a resisting, gradually more and
more challenging alternative.
Without significant exception the universalizing discourses of modern
Europe and the United States assume the silence, willing or otherwise, of the
non-European world. There is incorporation; there is inclusion; there is
direct rule; there is coercion. But there is only infrequently an acknowledge-
ment that the colonized people should be heard from, their ideas known.
It is possible to argue that the continued production and interpretation of
Western culture itself made exactly the same assumption well on into the
twentieth century, even as political resistance grew to the West’s power in
the “peripheral” world. Because of that, and because of where it led, it
becomes possible now to reinterpret the Western cultural archive as if
fractured geographically by the activated imperial divide, to do a rather
different kind of reading and interpretation. In the first place, the history of
fields like comparative literature, English studies, cultural analysis, anthro-
pology' can be seen as affiliated with the empire and, in a manner of speaking,
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Connecting Empire to Secular Interpretation ji
even contributing to its methods for maintaining Western ascendancy over
non-Western natives, especially if we are aware of the spatial consciousness
exemplified in Gramsci’s “southern question.” And in the second place our
interpretative change of perspective allows us to challenge the sovereign and
unchallenged authority of the allegedly detached Western observer.
Western cultural forms can be taken out of the autonomous enclosures in
which they have been protected, and placed instead in the dynamic global
environment created by imperialism, itself revised as an ongoing contest
between north and south, metropolis and periphery, white and native. We
may thus consider imperialism as a process occurring as part of the metro-
politan culture, which at times acknowledges, at other times obsctires the
sustained business of the empire itself The important point — a very Grams-
cian one — is how the national British, French, and American cultures main-
tained hegemony over the peripheries. How within them was consent gained
and continuously consolidated for the distant rule of native peoples and
territories?
As we look back at the cultural archive, we begin to reread it not univo-
cally but contrapuntally, with a simultaneous awareness both of the metropoli-
tan history that is narrated and of those other histories against which (and
together with which) the dominating discourse acts. In the counterpoint of
Western classical music, various themes play off one another, with only a
provisional privilege being given to any particular one; yet in the resulting
polyphony there is concert and order, an organized interplay that derives
from the themes, not from a rigorous melodic or formal principle outside the
work. In the same way, I believe, we can read and interpret English novels,
for example, whose engagement (Usually suppressed for the most part) with
the West Indies or India, say, is shaped and perhaps even determined by the
specific history of colonization, resistance, and finally native nationalism. At
this point alternative or new narratives emerge, and they become institu-
tionalized or discursively stable entities.
It should be evident that no one overarching theoretical principle governs
the whole imperialist ensemble, and it should be just as evident that the
principle of domination and resistance based on the division between the
West and the rest of the world — to adapt freely from the African critic
Chinweizu — runs like a fissure throughout. That fissure affected all the
many local engagements, overlappings, interdependencies in Africa, India,
and elsewhere in the peripheries, each different, each with its own density
of associations and forms, its own motifs, works, institutions, and — most
important from our point of view as rereaders — its own possibilities and
conditions of knowledge. For each locale in which the engagement occurs,
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
and the imperialist model is disassembled, its incorporative, universalizing,
and totalizing codes rendered ineffective and inapplicable, a particular type
of research and knowledge begins to build up.
An example of the new knowledge would be the study of Orientalism or
Africanism and, to take a related set, the study of Englishness and French-
ness. These identities are today analyzed not as god-given essences, but as
results of collaboration between African history and the study of Africa in
England, for instance, or between the study of French history and the
reorganization of knowledge during the First Empire. In an important sense,
we are dealing with the formation of cultural identities understood not as
essentializations (although part of their enduring appeal is that they seem
and are considered to be like essentializations) but as contrapuntal ensem-
bles, for it is the case that no identity can ever exist by itself and without an
array of opposites, negatives, oppositions: Greeks always require barbarians,
and Europeans Africans, Orientals, etc. The opposite is certainly true as
well. Even the mammoth engagements in our own time over such essentiali-
zations as “Islam,” the “West,” the “Orient,” “Japan,” or “Europe” admit to
a particular knowledge and structures of attitude and reference, and those
require careful analysis and research.
If one studies some of the major metropolitan cultures — England’s,
France’s and the United States’, for instance — in the geographical context of
their struggles for (and over) empires, a distinctive cultural topography
becomes apparent. In using the phrase “structures of attitude and reference”
I have this topography in mind, as I also have in mind Raymond Williams’s
seminal phrase “structures of feeling.” I am talking about the way in which
structures of location and geographical, reference appear in the cultural
languages of literature, history, or ethnography, sometimes allusively and
sometimes carefully plotted, across several individual works that are not
otherwise connected to one another or to an official ideology of “empire.”
In British culture, for instance, one may discover a consistency of concern
in Spenser, Shakespeare, Defoe, and Austen that fixes socially desirable,
empowered space in metropolitan England or Europe and connects it by
design, motive, and development to distant or peripheral worlds (Ireland,
Venice, Africa, Jamaica), conceived of as desirable but subordinate. And with
these meticulously maintained references come attitudes — about rule, con-
trol, profit and enhancement and suitability — that grow with astonishing
power from the seventeenth to the end of the nineteenth century. These
structures do not arise from some pre-existing (semi-conspiratorial) design
that the writers then manipulate, but are bound up with the development of
Britain’s cultural identity, as that identity imagines itself in a geographically
conceived world. Similar structures may be remarked in French and Ameri-
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Connecting Empire to Secular Interpretation
53
can cultures, growing for different reasons and obviously in different ways.
We are not yet at the stage where we can say whether these globally integral
structures are preparations for imperial control and conquest, or whether
they accompany such enterprises, or whether in some reflective or careless
way they are a result of empire. We are only at a stage where we must look
at the astonishing frequency of geographical articulations in the three West-
ern cultures that most dominated far-flung territories. In the second chapter
of this book I explore this question and advance further arguments about it.
To the best of my ability to have read and understood these “structures
of attitude and reference,” there was scarcely any dissent, any departure, any
demurral from them: there was virtual unanimity that subject races should
be ruled, that they are subject races, that one race deserves and has consis-
tendy earned the right to be considered the race whose main mission is to
expand beyond its own domain. (Indeed, as Seeley was to put it in 1883, about
Britain — France and the United States had their own theorists — the British
could only be understood as such.) It is perhaps embarrassing that sectors of
the metropolitan cultures that have since become vanguards in the social
contests of our time were uncomplaining members of this imperial consen-
sus. With few exceptions, the women’s as well as the working-class move-
ment was pro-empire. And, while one must always be at great pains to show
that different imaginations, sensibilities, ideas, and philosophies were at
work, and that each work of literature or art is special, there was virtual
unity of purpose on this score: the empire must be maintained, and it was
maintained.
Reading and interpreting the major metropolitan cultural texts in this
newly activated, reinformed way could not have been possible without the
movements of resistance that occurred everywhere in the peripheries
against the empire. In the third chapter of this book I make the claim that
a new global consciousness connects all the various local arenas of anti-
imperial contest. And today writers and scholars from the formerly colo-
nized world have imposed their diverse histories on, have mapped their local
geographies in, the great canonical texts of the European center. And from
these overlapping yet discrepant interactions the new readings and knowl-
edges are beginning to appear. One need only think of the tremendously
powerful upheavals that occurred at the end of the 1980s— the breaking
down of barriers, the popular insurgencies, the drift across borders, the
looming problems ofimmigrant, refugee, and minority' rights in the West —
to see how obsolete are the old categories, the tight separations, and the
comfortable autonomies.
It is very important, though, to assess how these entities were built, and
to understand how patiently the idea of an unencumbered English culture,
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
for example, acquired its authority and its power to impose itself across the
seas. This is a tremendous task for any individual, but a whole new genera-
tion of scholars and intellectuals from the Third World is engaged on just
such an undertaking.
Here a word of caution and prudence is required. One theme I take up
is the uneasy relationship between nationalism and liberation, two ideals or
goals for people engaged against imperialism. In the main it is true that the
creation of very many newly independent nation-states in the post-colonial
world has succeeded in re-establishing the primacy of what have been called
imagined communities, parodied and mocked by writers like V. S. Naipaul
and Conor Cruise O’Brien, hijacked by a host of dictators and petty tyrants,
enshrined in various state nationalisms. Nevertheless in general there is an
oppositional quality to the consciousness of many Third World scholars and
intellectuals, particularly (but not exclusively) those who are exiles, expatri-
ates, or refugees and immigrants in the West, many of them inheritors of the
work done by earlier twentieth-century expatriates like George Antonius
and C.L.R. James. Their work in trying to connect experiences across the
imperial divide, in re-examining the great canons, in producing what in
effect is a critical literature cannot be, and generally has not been, co-opted
by the resurgent nationalisms, despotisms, and ungenerous ideologies that
betrayed the liberationist ideal in favor of the nationalist independence
actuality.
Moreover their work should be seen as sharing important concerns with
minority and “suppressed” voices within the metropolis itself: feminists,
African-American writers, intellectuals, artists, among others. But here too
vigilance and self-criticism are crucial, since there is an inherent danger to
oppositional effort of becoming institutionalized, marginality turning into
separatism, and resistance hardening into dogma. Surely the activism that
reposits and reformulates the political challenges in intellectual life is safe-
guarded against orthodoxy. But there is always a need to keep community
before coercion, criticism before mere solidarity, and vigilance ahead of
assent.
Since my themes here are a sort of sequel to Orientalism, which like this
book was written in the United States, some consideration of America’s
cultural and political environment is warranted. The United States is no
ordinary large country. The United States is the last superpower, an enor-
mously influential, frequently interventionary power nearly everywhere in
the world. Citizens and intellectuals of the United States have a particular
responsibility for what goes on between the United States and the rest of the
world, a responsibility that is in no way discharged or fulfilled by saying that
the Soviet Union, Britain, France, or China were, or are, worse. The fact is
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Contacting Empire to Secular Interpretation > j
that we are indeed responsible for, and therefore more capable of, influenc-
ing this country in ways that we were not for the pre-Gorbachev Soviet
Union, or other countries. So we should first take scrupulous note of how in
Central and Latin America — to mention the most obvious — as well as in the
Middle East, Africa, and Asia, the United States has replaced the great
earlier empires and is the dominant outside force.
Looked at honestly, the record is not a good one. United States military
interventions since World War Two have occurred (and are still occurring)
on nearly every continent, many of great complexity and extent, with
tremendous national investment, as we are now only beginning to under-
stand. All of this is, in William Appleman Williams’s phrase, empire as a way
of life. The continuing disclosures about the war in Vietnam, about the
United States’ support of “contras” in Nicaragua, about the crisis in the
Persian Gulf, are only part of the story of this complex of interventions.
Insufficient attention is paid to the fact that United States Middle Eastern
and Central American policies — whether exploiting a geo-political opening
among Iranian so-called moderates, or aiding the so-called Contra Freedom
Fighters in overthrowing the elected, legal government of Nicaragua, or
coming to the aid of the Saudi and Kuwaiti royal families — can only be
described as imperialist.
Even if we were to allow, as many have, that United States foreign policy
is principally altruistic and dedicated to such unimpeachable goals as free-
dom and democracy, there is considerable room for skepticism. The rele-
vance of T. S. Eliot’s remarks in “Tradition and the Individual Talent” about
the historical sense are demonstrably important. Are we not as a nation
repeating what France and Britain, Spain and Portugal, Holland and Ger-
many, did before us? And yet do we not tend to regard ourselves as somehow
exempt from the more sordid imperial adventures that preceded ours?
Besides, is there not an unquestioned assumption on our part that our
destiny is to rule and lead the world, a destiny that we have assigned
ourselves as part of our errand into the wilderness?
In short, we face as a nation the deep, profoundly perturbed and perturb-
ing question of our relationship to others — other cultures, states, histories,
experiences, traditions, peoples, and destinies. There is no Archimedean
point beyond the question from which to answer it; there is no vantage
outside the actuality of relationships among cultures, among unequal impe-
rial and non-imperial powers, among us and others; no one has the episte-
mological privilege of somehow judging, evaluating, and interpreting the
world free from the encumbering interests and engagements of the ongoing
relationships themselves. We are, so to speak, o/the connections, not outside
and beyond them. And it behooves us as intellectuals and humanists and
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
secular critics to understand the United States in the world of nations and
power from within the actuality, as participants in it, not detached outside
observers who, like Oliver Goldsmith, in Yeats’s perfect phrase, deliberately
sip at the honeypots of our minds.
Contemporary travails in recent European and American anthropology
reflect these conundrums and embroilments in a symptomatic and interest-
ing way. That cultural practice and intellectual activity carry, as a major
constitutive element, an unequal relationship of force between the outside
Western ethnographer-observer and the primitive, or at least different, but
certainly weaker and less developed non-European, non-Western person. In
the extraordinarily rich text of Kim, Kipling extrapolates the political mean-
ing of that relationship and embodies it in the figure of Colonel Creighton,
an ethnographer in charge of the Survey of India, also the head of British
intelligence services in India, the “Great Game” to which young Kim
belongs. Modern Western anthropology frequently repeated that prob-
lematic relationship, and in recent works of a number of theoreticians deals
with the almost insuperable contradiction between a political actuality based
on force, and a scientific and humane desire to understand the Other her-
meneutically and sympathetically in modes not influenced by force.
Whether these efforts succeed or fail is a less interesting matter than what
distinguishes them, what makes them possible: an acute and embarrassed
awareness of the all-pervasive, unavoidable imperial setting. In fact, there is
no way that I know of apprehending the world from within American
culture (with a whole history of exterminism and incorporation behind it)
without also apprehending the imperial contest itself. This, I would say, is
a cultural fact of extraordinary political as well as interpretative importance,
yet it has not been recognized as such in cultural and literary theory, and
is routinely circumvented or occluded in cultural discourses. To read most
cultural deconstructionists, or Marxists, or new historicists is to read writers
whose political horizon, whose historical location is within a society and
culture deeply enmeshed in imperial domination. Yet little notice is taken
of this horizon, few acknowledgements of the setting are advanced, little
realization of the imperial closure itself is allowed for. Instead, one has the
impression that interpretation of other cultures, texts, and peoples — which
at bottom is what all interpretation is about — occurs in a timeless vacuum,
so forgiving and permissive as to deliver the interpretation directly into a
universalism free from attachment, inhibition, and interest
We live of course in a world not only of commodities but also of represen-
tation, and representations — their production, circulation, history, and in-
terpretation — are the very element of culture. In much recent theory the
problem of representation is deemed to be central, yet rarely is it put in its
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Connecting Empire to Secular Interpretation si
full political context, a context that is primarily imperial. Instead we have
on the one hand an isolated cultural sphere, believed to be freely and
unconditionally available to weightless theoretical speculation and investi-
gation, arjd, on the other, a debased political sphere, where the real struggle
between interests is supposed to occur. To the professional student of
culture — the humanist, the critic, the scholar — only one sphere is relevant,
and, more to the point, it is accepted that the two spheres are separated,
whereas the two are not only connected but ultimately the same.
A radical falsification has become established in this separation. Culture
is exonerated of any entanglements with power, representations are consid-
ered only as apolitical images to be parsed and construed as so many
grammars of exchange, and the divorce of the present from the past is
assumed to be complete. And yet, far from this separation of spheres being
a neutral or accidental choice, its real meaning is as an act of complicity, the
humanist’s choice of a disguised, denuded, systematically purged textual
model over a more embattled model, whose principal features would inevi-
tably coalesce around the continuing struggle over the question of empire
itself.
Let me put this differently, using examples that will be familiar to every-
one. For at least a decade, there has been a decently earnest debate in the
United States over the meaning, contents, and goals of liberal education.
Much but not all of this debate was stimulated in the university after the
upheavals of the 1960s, when it appeared for the first time in this century that
the structure, authority, and tradition of American education were chal-
lenged by marauding energies, released by socially and intellectually in-
spired provocations. The newer currents in the academy, and the force of
what is called theory (a rubric under which were herded many new disci-
plines like psychoanalysis, linguistics, and Nietzschean philosophy, un-
housed from the traditional fields such as philology, moral philosophy, and
the natural sciences), acquired prestige and interest; they appeared to under-
mine the authority and the stability of established canons, well-capitalized
fields, long-standing procedures of accreditation, research, and the division
of intellectual labor. That all this occurred in the modest and circumscribed
terrain of cultural-academic praxis simultaneously with the great wave of
anti-war, anti-imperialist protest was not fortuitous but, rather, a genuine
political and intellectual conjuncture.
There is considerable irony that our search in the metropolis for a newly
invigorated, reclaimed tradition follows the exhaustion of modernism and is
expressed variously as post-modernism or, as I said earlier, citing Lyotard,
as the loss of the legitimizing power of the narratives of Western emancipa-
tion and enlightenment; simultaneously, modernism is rediscovered in the
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
J8
formerly colonized, peripheral world, where resistance, the logic of daring,
and various investigations of age-old tradition ( al-Turath , in the Islamic
world) together set the tone.
One response in the West to the new conjunctures, then, has been pro-
foundly reactionary: the effort to reassert old authorities and canons, the
effort to reinstate ten or twenty or thirty essential Western books without
which a Westerner would not be educated — these efforts are couched in the
rhetoric of embattled patriotism.
But there can be another response, worth returning to here, for it offers
an important theoretical opportunity. Cultural experience or indeed every
cultural form is radically, quintessentially hybrid, and if it has been the
practice in the West since Immanuel Kant to isolate cultural and aesthetic
realms from the worldly domain, it is now time to rejoin them. This is by
no means a simple matter, since — I believe — it has been the essence of
experience in the West at least since the late eighteenth century not only
to acquire distant domination and reinforce hegemony, but also to divide the
realms of culture and experience into apparently separate spheres. Entities
such as races and nations, essences such as Englishness or Orientalism,
modes of production such as the Asiatic or Occidental, all of these in my
opinion testify to an ideology whose cultural correlatives well precede the
actual accumulation of imperial territories world-wide.
Most historians of empire speak of the “age of empire” as formally
beginning around 1878, with “the scramble for Africa.” A closer look at the
cultural actuality reveals a much earlier, more deeply and stubbornly held
view about overseas European hegemony; we can locate a coherent, fully
mobilized system of ideas near the end of the eighteenth century, and there
follows the set of integral developments such as the first great systematic
conquests under Napoleon, the rise of nationalism and the European nation-
state, the advent of large-scale industrialization, and the consolidation of
power in the bourgeoisie. This is also the period in which the novel form
and the new historical narrative become pre-eminent, and in which the
importance of subjectivity to historical time takes firm hold.
Yet most cultural historians, and certainly all literary scholars, have failed
to remark the geographical notation, the theoretical mapping and charting of
territory that underlies Western fiction, historical writing, and philosophical
discourse of the time. There is first the authority of the European observer —
traveller, merchant, scholar, historian, novelist Then there is the hierarchy
of spaces by which the metropolitan center and, gradually, the metropolitan
economy are seen as dependent upon an overseas system of territorial
control, economic exploitation, and a socio-cultural vision; without these
stability and prosperity at home — “home” being a word with extremely
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Connecting Empire to Secular Interpretation
59
potent resonances — would not be possible. The perfect example of what I
mean is to be found in Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park , in which Thomas
Bertram’s slave plantation in Antigua is mysteriously necessary to the poise
and the beauty of Mansfield Park, a place described in moral and aesthetic
terms well before the scramble for Africa, or before the age of empire
officially began. As John Stuart Mill puts it in the Principles of Political
Economy:
These [outlying possessions of ours] are hardly to be looked upon as
countries, . . . but more properly as outlying agricultural or manufactur-
ing estates belonging to a larger community. Our West Indian colonies,
for example, cannot be regarded as countries with a productive capital
of their own . . . [but are rather] the place where England finds it
convenient to carry on the production of sugar, coffee and a few other
tropical commodities. 51
Read this extraordinary passage together with Jane Austen, and a much
less benign picture stands forth than the usual one of cultural formations in
the pre-imperialist age. In Mill we have the ruthless proprietary tones of the
white master used to effacing the reality, work, and suffering of millions of
slaves, transported across the middle passage, reduced only to an incorpo-
rated status “for the benefit of the proprietors.” These colonies are, Mill says,
to be considered as hardly anything more than a convenience, an attitude
confirmed by Austen, who in Mansfield Park sublimates the agonies of Carib-
bean existence to a mere half dozen passing references to Antigua. And
much the same processes occur in other canonical writers of Britain and
France; in short, the metropolis gets its authority to a considerable extent
from the devaluation as well as the exploitation of the outlying colonial
possession. (Not for nothing, then, did Walter Rodney entitle his great
decolonizing treatise of 1972 How Europe Underdeveloped Africa.)
Lastly, the authority of the observer, and of European geographical cen-
trality, is buttressed by a cultural discourse relegating and confining the
non-European to a secondary racial, cultural, ontological status. Yet this
secondariness is, paradoxically, essential to the primariness of the European;
this of course is the paradox explored by C^saire, Fanon, and Memmi, and
it is but one among many of the ironies of modern critical theory that it has
rarely been explored by investigators of the aporias and impossibilities of
reading. Perhaps that is because it places emphasis not so much on bow to
read, but rather on wbat is read and where it is written about and represented.
It is to Conrad’s enormous credit to have sounded in such a complex and
riven prose the authentic imperialist note — how you supply the forces of
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OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES
world-wide accumulation and rule with a self-confirming ideological motor
(what Marlow in Heart of Darkness calls efficiency with devotion to an idea
at the back of it, “it” being the taking away of the earth from those with
darker complexions and flatter noses) and simultaneously draw a screen
across the process, saying that art and culture have nothing to do with “it.”
What to read and what to do with that reading, that is the fall form of the
question. All the energies poured into critical theory, into novel and demys-
tifying theoretical praxes like the new historicism and deconstruction and
Marxism have avoided the major, I would say determining, political horizon
of modern Western culture, namely imperialism. This massive avoidance
has sustained a canonical inclusion and exclusion; you include the Rous-
seaus, the Nietzsches, the Wordsworths, the Dickenses, Flauberts, and so on,
and at the same you exclude their relationships with the protracted, com-
plex, and striated work of empire. But why is this a matter of what to read
and about where? Very simply, because critical discourse has taken no
cognizance of the enormously exciting, varied post-colonial literature pro-
duced in resistance to the imperialist expansion of Europe and the United
States in the past rwo centuries. To read Austen without also reading Fanon
and Cabral — and so on and on — is to disaffiliate modern culture from its
engagements and attachments. That is a process that should be reversed.
But there is more to be done. Critical theory and literary historical
scholarship have reinterpreted and revalidated major swatches of Western
literature, art, and philosophy. Much of this has been exciting and power-
ful work, even though one often senses more an energy of elaboration and
refinement than a committed engagement to what I would call secular and
affiliated criticism; such criticism cannot be undertaken without a fairly
strong sense of how consciously chosen historical models are relevant to
social and intellectual change. Yet if you read and interpret modern Euro-
pean and American culture as having had something to do with imperial-
ism, it becomes incumbent upon you also to reinterpret the canon in the
light of texts whose place there has been insufficiently linked to, insuffi-
ciently weighted toward the expansion of Europe. Put differently, this pro-
cedure entails reading the canon as a polyphonic accompaniment to the
expansion of Europe, giving a revised direction and valence to writers
such as Conrad and Kipling, who have always been read as sports, not as
writers whose manifestly imperialist subject matter has a long subterra-
nean or implicit and proleptic life in the earlier work of writers like, say,
Austen or Chateaubriand.
Second, theoretical work must begin to formulate the relationship be-
tween empire and culture. There have been a few milestones — Kiernan’s
work, for instance, and Martin Green’s — but concern with the issue has not
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Connecting Empire to Secular Interpretation
61
been intense. Things, however, are beginning to change,, as I noted earlier.
A whole range of work in other disciplines, a new group of often younger
scholars and critics — here, in the Third World, in Europe — are beginning
to embark on the theoretical and historical enterprises; many of them seem
in one way or another to be converging on questions ofimperialist discourse,
colonialist practice, and so forth. Theoretically we are only at the stage of
trying to inventory the interpellation of culture by empire, but the efforts so
far made are only slightly more than rudimentary. And as the study of
culture extends; into the mass media, popular culture, micro-politics, and so
forth, the focus on modes of power and hegemony grows sharper.
Third, we should keep before us the prerogatives of the present as
signposts and paradigms for the study of the past. If 1 have insisted on
integration and connections between the past and the present, between
imperializer and imperialized, between culture and imperialism, I have done
so not to level or reduce differences, but rather to convey a more urgent
sense of the interdependence between things. So vast and yet so detailed is
imperialism as an experience with crucial cultural dimensions, that we must
speak of overlapping territories, intertwined histories common to men and
women, whites and non-whites, dwellers in the metropolis and on the
peripheries, past as well as present and future; these territories and histories
can only be seen from the perspective of the whole of secular human history.
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CHAPTER TWO
CONSOLIDATED VISION
early everywhere in nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century British
and French culture we find allusions to the facts of empire, but
perhaps nowhere with more regularity and frequency than in the British
novel. Taken together, these allusions constitute what I have called a struc-
ture of attitude and reference. In Mansfield Park, which within Jane Austen’s
work carefully defines the moral and social values informing her other
novels, references to Sir Thomas Bertram’s overseas possessions are
threaded through; they give him his wealth, occasion his absences, fix his
social status at home and abroad, and make possible his values, to which
F anny Price (and Austen herself) finally subscribes. If this is a novel about
“ordination,” as Austen says, the right to colonial possessions helps directly
to establish social order and moral priorities at home. Or again, Bertha
Mason, Rochester’s deranged wife in Jane Eyre, is a West Indian, and also a
threatening presence, confined to an attic room. Thackeray’s Joseph Sedley
in Vanity Fair is an Indian nabob whose rambunctious behavior and excessive
(perhaps undeserved) wealth is counterpointed with Becky’s finally unac-
ceptable deviousness, which in turn is contrasted with Amelia’s propriety,
suitably rewarded in the end; Joseph Dobbin is seen at the end of the novel
engaged serenely in writing a history of the Punjab. The good ship Rose in
Charles Kingsley's Westward Ho! wanders through the Caribbean and South
America. In Dickens’s Great Expectations, Abel Magwitch is the convict trans-
We called ourselves “Intrusive” as a band; for we meant to break into the
accepted halls of English foreign policy, and build a new people in the East,
despite the rails laid down for us by our ancestors.
T. E. Lawrence, The Seven Pillars of Wisdom
( I )
Narrative and Social Space
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ported to Australia whose wealth — conveniently removed from Pip’s tri-
umphs as a provincial lad flourishing in London in the guise of a gentle-
man — ironically makes possible the great expectations Pip entertains. In
many other Dickens novels businessmen have connections with the empire,
Dombey and Quilp being two noteworthy examples. For Disraeli's Tattered
and Eliot’s Daniel Deronda, the East is partly a habitat for native peoples (or
immigrant European populations), but also partly incorporated under the
sway of empire. Henry James’s Ralph Touchett in Portrait of a Lady travels
in Algeria and Egypt. And when we come to Kipling, Conrad, Arthur Conan
Doyle, Rider Haggard, R. L. Stevenson, George Orwell, Joyce Cary, E. M.
Forster, and T. E. Lawrence, the empire is everywhere a crucial setting.
The situation in France was different, insofar as the French imperial
vocation during the early nineteenth century was different from England’s,
buttressed as it was by the continuity and stability of the English polity itself.
The reverses of policy, losses of colonies, insecurity of possession, and shifts
in philosophy that France suffered during the Revolution and the Napole-
onic era meant that its empire had a less secure identity and presence in
French culture. In Chateaubriand and Lamartine one hears the rhetoric of
imperial grandeur; and in painting, in historical and philological writing, in
music and theater one has an often vivid apprehension of France’s outlying
possessions. But in the culture at large — until after the middle of the cen-
tury — there is rarely that weighty, almost philosophical sense of imperial
mission that one finds in Britain.
There is also a dense body of American writing, contemporary with this
British and French work, which shows a peculiarly acute imperial cast, even
though paradoxically its ferocious anti-colonialism, directed at the Old
World, is central to it. One thinks, for example, of the Puritan “errand into
the wilderness" and, later, of that extraordinarily obsessive concern in
Cooper, Twain, Melville, and others with United States expansion west-
ward, along with the wholesale colonization and destruction of native Amer-
ican life (as memorably studied by Richard Slotkin, Patricia Limerick, and
Michael Paul Rogin); 1 an imperial motif emerges to rival the European one.
(In Chapter Four of this book I shall deal with other and more recent aspects
of the United States in its late-twentieth-century imperial form.)
As a reference, as a point of definition, as an easily assumed place of travel,
wealth, and service, the empire functions for much of the European nine-
teenth century as a codified, if only marginally visible, presence in fiction,
very much like the servants in grand households and in novels, whose work
is taken for granted but scarcely ever more than named, rarely studied
(though Bruce Robbins has recently written on them), 2 or given density. To
cite another intriguing analogue, imperial possessions are as usefully there,
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
anonymous and collective, as the outcast populations (analyzed by Gareth
Stedman Jones) 3 of transient workers, part-time employees, seasonal arti-
sans; their existence always counts, though their names and identities do not,
they are profitable without being fully there. This is a literary equivalent, in
Eric Wolf’s somewhat self-congratulatory words, of “people without His-
tory,” 4 people on whom the economy and polity sustained by empire de-
pend, but whose reality has not historically or culturally required attention.
In all of these instances the facts of empire are associated with sustained
possession, with far-flung and sometimes unknown spaces, with eccentric or
unacceptable human beings, with fortune-enhancing or fantasized activities
like emigration, money-making, and sexual adventure. Disgraced younger
sons are sent off to the colonies, shabby older relatives go there to try to
recoup lost fortunes (as in Balzac’s La Cousine Bette), enterprising young
travellers go there to sow wild oats and to collect exotica. The colonial
territories are realms of possibility, and they have always been associated
with the realistic novel. Robinson Crusoe is virtually unthinkable without
the colonizing mission that permits him to create a new world of his own in
the distant reaches of the African, Pacific, and Atlantic wilderness. But most
of the great nineteenth-century realistic novelists are less assertive about
colonial rule and possessions than either Defoe or late writers like Conrad
and Kipling, during whose time great electoral reform and mass participa-
tion in politics meant that imperial competition became a more intrusive
domestic topic. In the closing year of the nineteenth century, with the
scramble for Africa, the consolidation of the French imperial Union, the
American annexation of the Philippines, and British rule in the Indian
subcontinent at its height, empire was a universal concern.
What I should like to note is that these colonial and imperial realities are
overlooked in criticism that has otherwise been extraordinarily thorough
and resourceful in finding themes to discuss. The relatively few writers and
critics who discuss the relationship between culture and empire — among
them Martin Green, Molly Mahood, John McClure, and, in particular,
Patrick Brantlinger — have made excellent contributions, but their mode is
essentially narrative and descriptive — pointing out the presence of themes,
the importance of certain historical conjunctures, the influence or persis-
tence of ideas about imperialism — and they cover huge amounts of mate-
rial. 5 In almost all cases they write critically of imperialism, of that way of
life that William Appleman Williams describes as being compatible with all
sorts of other ideological persuasions, even antinomian ones, so that during
the nineteenth century “imperial outreach made it necessary to develop an
appropriate ideology” in alliance with military, economic, and political
methods. These made it possible to “preserve and extend the empire with-
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Narrative and Social Space
65
out wasting its psychic or cultural or economic substance.” There are hints
in these scholars’ work that, again to quote Williams, imperialism pro-
duces troubling self-images, for example, that of “a benevolent progressive
policeman.” 6
But these critics are mainly descriptive and positivist writers strikingly
different from the small handful of generally theoretical and ideological
contributions — among them Jonah Raskin’s The Mythology of Imperialism,
Gordon K. Lewis’s Slavery, Imperialism, and Freedom, and V. G. Kiernan’s
Marxism and Imperialism and his crucial work, The Lords of Human Kind ? All
these books, which owe a great deal to Marxist analysis and premises, point
out the centrality of imperialist thought in modern Western culture.
Yet none of them has been anywhere as influential as they should have
been in changing our ways of looking at the canonical works of nineteenth-
and twentieth-century European culture. The major critical practitioners
simply ignore imperialism. In recently rereading Lionel Trilling’s fine little
book on E. M. Forster, for instance, 1 was struck that in his otherwise
perceptive consideration of Howards End he does not once mention imperial-
ism, which, in my reading of the book, is hard to miss, much less ignore. After
all, Henry Wilcox and his family are colonial rubber growers: “They had the
colonial spirit, and were always making for some spots where the white man
might carry his burden unobserved.” 8 And Forster frequently contrasts and
associates that fact with the changes taking place in England, changes that
affect Leonard and Jacky Bast, the Schlegels, and Howards End itself. Or
there is the more surprising case of Raymond Williams, whose Culture and
Society does not deal with the imperial experience at all. (When in an
interview Williams was challenged about this massive absence, since imperi-
alism “was not something which was secondary and external — it was abso-
lutely constitutive of the whole nature of the English political and social
order ... the salient fact” 9 — he replied that his Welsh experience, which
ought to have enabled him to think about the imperial experience, was “very
much in abeyance” at the time he wrote Culture and Society.) 10 The few
tantalizing pages in The Country and the City that touch on culture and
imperialism are peripheral to the book’s main idea.
Why did these lapses occur? And how was the centrality of the imperial
vision registered and supported by the culture that produced it, then to some
extent disguised it, and also was transformed by it? Naturally, if you yourself
happen to have a colonial background, the imperial theme is a determining
one in your formation, and it will draw you to it if you also happen to be
a dedicated critic of European literature. An Indian or African scholar of
English literature reads Kim, say, or Heart of Darkness with a critical urgency
not felt in quite the same way by an American or British one. But in what
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
way can we formulate the relationship between culture and imperialism
beyond the asseverations of personal testimony? The emergence of formerly
colonial subjects as interpreters of imperialism and its great cultural works
has given imperialism a perceptible, not to say obtrusive identity as a subject
for study and vigorous revision. But how can that particular kind of post-
imperial testimony and study, usually left at the margins of critical dis-
course, be brought into active contact with current theoretical concerns?
To regard imperial concerns as constitutively significant to the culture of
the modern West is, I have suggested, to consider that culture from the
perspective provided by anti-imperialist resistance as well as pro-imperialist
apology. What does this mean? It means remembering that Western writers
until the middle of the twentieth century, whether Dickens and Austen,
Flaubert or Camus, wrote with an exclusively Western audience in mind,
even when they wrote of characters, places, or situations that referred to,
made use of, overseas territories held by Europeans. But just because Austen
referred to Antigua in Mansfield Park or to realms visited by the British navy
in Persuasion without any thought of possible responses by the Caribbean or
Indian natives resident there is no reason for us to do the same. We now
know that these non-European peoples did not accept with indifference the
authority projected over them, or the general silence on which their pres-
ence in variously attenuated forms is predicated. We must therefore read the
great canonical texts, and perhaps also the entire archive of modern and
pre-modern European and American culture, with an effort to draw out,
extend, give emphasis and voice to what is silent or marginally present or
ideologically represented (I have in mind Kipling’s Indian characters) in
such works.
In practical terms, “contrapuntal reading” as I have called it means read-
ing a text with an understanding of what is involved when an author shows,
for instance, that a colonial sugar plantation is seen as important to the
process of maintaining a particular style of life in England. Moreover, like
all literary texts, these are not bounded by their formal historic beginnings
and endings. References to Australia in David Copperfield or India in Jane Eyre
are made because they can be , because British power (and not just the
novelist’s fancy) made passing references to these massive appropriations
possible; but the further lessons are no less true: that these colonies were
subsequently liberated from direct and indirect rule, a process that began
and unfolded while the British (or French, Portuguese, Germans, etc.) were
still there, although as part of the effort at suppressing native nationalism
only occasional note was taken of it. The point is that contrapuntal reading
must take account of both processes, that of imperialism and that of resis-
tance to it, which can be done by extending our reading of the texts to
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include what was once forcibly excluded— in L’Etranger, for example, the
whole previous history of France’s colonialism and its destruction of the
Algerian state, and the later emergence of an independent Algeria (which
Camus opposed).
Each text has its own particular genius, as does each geographical region
of the world, with its own overlapping experiences and interdependent
histories of conflict. As far as the cultural work is concerned, a distinction
between particularity and sovereignty (or hermetic exclusiveness) can use-
fully be made. Obviously no reading should try to generalize so much as to
efface the identity of a particular text, author, or movement. By the same
token it should allow that what was, or appeared to be, certain for a given
work or author may have become subject to disputation. Kipling’s India, in
Kim , has a quality of permanence and inevitability that belongs not just to
that wonderful novel, but to British India, its history, administrators, and
apologists and, no less important, to the India fought for by Indian national-
ists as their country to be won back. By giving an account of this series of
pressures and counter-pressures in Kipling’s India, we understand the pro-
cess of imperialism itself as the great work of art engages them, and of later
anti-imperialist resistance. In reading a text, one must open it out both to
what went into it and to what its author excluded. Each cultural work is a
vision of a moment, and we must juxtapose that vision with the various
revisions it later provoked — in this case, the nationalist experiences of
post-independence India.
In addition, one must connect the structures of a narrative to the ideas,
concepts, experiences from which it draws support. Conrad’s Africans, for
example, come from a huge library of Africanism, so to speak, as well as from
Conrad’s personal experiences. There is no such thing as a direct experience,
or reflection, of the world in the language of a text. Conrad’s impressions of
Africa were inevitably influenced by lore and writing about Africa, which he
alludes to in A Personal Record; what he supplies in Heart of Darkness is the
result of his impressions of those texts interacting creatively, together with
the requirements and conventions of narrative and his own special genius
and history. To say of this extraordinarily rich mix that it “reflects" Africa,
or even that it reflects an experience of Africa, is somewhat pusillanimous
and surely misleading. What we have in Heart of Darkness — a work of
immense influence, having provoked many readings and images — is a politi-
cized, ideologically saturated Africa which to some intents and purposes was
the imperialized place, with those many interests and ideas furiously at work
in it, not just a photographic literary “reflection” of it
This is, perhaps, to overstate the matter, but I want to make the point that
far from Heart of Darkness and its image of Africa being “only” literature, the
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
work is extraordinarily caught up in, is indeed an organic part of, the
“scramble for Africa” that was contemporary with Conrad’s composition.
True, Conrad’s audience was small, and, true also, he was very critical of
Belgian colonialism. But to most Europeans, reading a rather rarefied text
like Heart of Darkness was often as close as they came to Africa, and in that
limited sense it was part of the European effort to hold on to, think about,
plan for Africa. To represent Africa is to enter the battle over Africa,
inevitably connected to later resistance, decolonization, and so forth.
Works of literature, particularly those whose manifest subject is empire,
have an inherently untidy, even unwieldy aspect in so fraught, so densely
charged a political setting. Yet despite their formidable complexity, literary
works like Heart of Darkness are distillations, or simplifications, or a set of
choices made by an author that are far less messy and mixed up than the
reality. It would not be fair to think of them as abstractions, although fictions
such as Heart of Darkness are so elaborately fashioned by authors and so
worried over by readers as to suit the necessities of narrative which as a
result, we must add, makes a highly specialized entry into the struggle over
Africa.
So hybrid, impure, and complex a text requires especially vigilant atten-
tion as it is interpreted. Modern imperialism was so global and all-encom-
passing that virtually nothing escaped it; besides, as I have said, the
nineteenth-century contest over empire is still continuing today. Whether
or not to look at the connections between cultural texts and imperialism is
therefore to take a position in fact taken — either to study the connection in
order to criticize it and think of alternatives for it, or not to study it in order
to let it stand, unexamined and, presumably, unchanged. One of my reasons
for writing this book is to show how far the quest for, concern about, and
consciousness of overseas dominion extended — not just in Conrad but in
figures we practically never think of in that connection, like Thackeray and
Austen — and how enriching and important for the critic is attention to this
material, not only for the obvious political reasons, but also because, as I
have been arguing, this particular kind of attention allows the reader to
interpret canonical nineteenth- and twentieth-century works with a newly
engaged interest.
Let us return to Heart of Darkness. In it Conrad offers an uncannily
suggestive starting point for grappling at close quarters with these difficult
matters. Recall that Marlow contrasts Roman colonizers with their modern
counterparts in an oddly perceptive way, illuminating the special mix of
power, ideological energy, and practical attitude characterizing European
imperialism. The ancient Romans, he says, were “no colonists; their admin-
istration was merely a squeeze and nothing more.” Such people conquered
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and did little else. By contrast, “what saves us is efficiency — the devotion to
efficiency,” unlike the Romans, who relied on brute force, which is scarcely
more than “an accident arising from the weakness of others.” Today,
however,
the conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from
those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than
ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What
redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental
pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea — something
you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to. . . .“
In his account of his great river journey, Marlow extends the point to mark
a distinction between Belgian rapacity and (by implication) British rational-
ity in the conduct of imperialism. 12
Salvation in this context is an interesting notion. It sets “us” off from the
damned, despised Romans and Belgians, whose greed radiates no benefits
onto either their consciences or the lands and bodies of their subjects. “We”
are saved because first of all we needn’t look directly at the results of what
we do; we are ringed by and ring ourselves with the practice of efficiency,
by which land and people are put to use completely; the territory and its
inhabitants are totally incorporated by our rule, which in turn totally incor-
porates us as we respond efficiently to its exigencies. Further, through
Marlow, Conrad speaks of redemption, a step in a sense beyond salvation.
If salvation saves us, saves time and money, and also saves us from the ruin
of mere short-term conquest, then redemption extends salvation further still.
Redemption is found in the self-justifying practice of an idea or mission over
time, in a structure that completely encircles and is revered by you, even
though you set up the structure in the first place, ironically enough, and no
longer study it closely because you take it for granted.
Thus Conrad encapsulates two quite different but intimately related
aspects of imperialism: the idea that is based on the power to take over
territory, an idea utterly clear in its force and unmistakable consequences;
and the practice that essentially disguises or obscures this by developing a
justificatory regime of self-aggrandizing, self-originating authority inter-
posed between the victim of imperialism and its perpetrator.
We would completely miss the tremendous power of this argument if we
were merely to lift it out of Heart of Darkness, like a message out of a bottle.
Conrad’s argument is inscribed right in the very form of narrative as he
inherited it and as he practiced it. Without empire, I would go so far as
saying, there is no European novel as we know it, and indeed if we study the
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
impulses giving rise to it, we shall see the far from accidental convergence
between the patterns of narrative authority constitutive of the novel on the
one hand, and, on the other, a complex ideological configuration underlying
the tendency to imperialism.
Every novelist and every critic or theorist of the European novel notes its
institutional character. The novel is fundamentally tied to bourgeois society;
in Charles Moraze’s phrase, it accompanies and indeed is a part of the
conquest of Western society by what he calls les bourgeois conquerants. No less
significantly, the novel is inaugurated in England by Robinson Crusoe, a work
whose protagonist is the founder of a new world, which he rules and reclaims
for Christianity and England. True, whereas Crusoe is explicitly enabled by
an ideology of overseas expansion — directly connected in style and form to
the narratives of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century exploration voyages
that laid the foundations of the great colonial empires — the major novels
that come after Defoe, and even Defoe’s later works, seem not to be single-
mindedly compelled by the exciting overseas prospects. Captain Singleton is
the story of a widely travelled pirate in India and Africa, and Moll Flanders
is shaped by the possibility in the New World of the heroine’s climactic
redemption from a life of crime, but Fielding, Richardson, Smollett, and
Sterne do not connect their narratives so directly to the act of accumulating
riches and territories abroad.
These novelists do, however, situate their work in and derive it from a
carefully surveyed territorial greater Britain, and that is related to what
Defoe so presciently began. Yet while distinguished studies of eighteenth-
century English fiction — by Ian Watt, Lennard Davis, John Richetti, and
Michael McKeon — have devoted considerable attention to the relationship
between the novel and social space, the imperial perspective has been
neglected . 15 This is not simply a matter of being uncertain whether, for
example, Richardson’s minute constructions of bourgeois seduction and
rapacity actually relate to British military moves against the French in India
occurring at the same time. Quite clearly they do not in a literal sense; but
in both realms we find common values about contest, surmounting odds and
obstacles, and patience in establishing authority through the art of connect-
ing principle with profit over time. In other words, we need to have a critical
sense of how the great spaces of Clarissa or Tom Jones are two things together:
a domestic accompaniment to the imperial project for presence and control
abroad, and a practical narrative about expanding and moving about in space
that must be actively inhabited and enjoyed before its discipline or limits can
be accepted.
I am not trying to say that the novel — or the culture in the broad
sense — “caused” imperialism, but that the novel, as a cultural artefact of
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7i
bourgeois society, and imperialism are unthinkable without each other. Of
all the major literary forms, the novel is the most recent, its emergence the
most datable, its occurrence the most Western, its normative pattern of
social authority the most structured; imperialism and the novel fortified each
other to such a degree that it is impossible, I would argue, to read one
without in some way dealing with the other.
Nor is this all. The novel is an incorporative, quasi-encyclopedic cultural
form. Packed into it are both a highly regulated plot mechanism and an
entire system of social reference that depends on the existing institutions of
bourgeois society, their authority and power. The novelistic hero and hero-
ine exhibit the restlessness and energy characteristic of the enterprising
bourgeoisie, and they are permitted adventures in which their experiences
reveal to them the limits of what they can aspire to, where they can go, what
they can become. Novels therefore end either with the death of a hero or
heroine (Julien Sorel, Emma Bovary, Bazarov, Jude the Obscure) who by
virtue of overflowing energy does not fit into the orderly scheme of things,
or with the protagonists’ accession to stability (usually in the form of mar-
riage or confirmed identity, as is the case with novels of Austen, Dickens,
Thackeray, and George Eliot).
But, one might ask, why give so much emphasis to novels, and to England?
And how can we bridge the distance separating this solitary aesthetic form
from large topics and undertakings like “culture” or “imperialism”? For one
thing, by the time of World War One the British empire had become
unquestionably dominant, the result of a process that had started in the late
sixteenth century; so powerful was the process and so definitive its result
that, as Seeley and Hobson argued toward the end of the nineteenth century,
it was the central fact in British history, and one that included many dispar-
ate activities. 14 It is not entirely coincidental that Britain also produced and
sustained a novelistic institution with no real European competitor or equiv-
alent France had more highly developed intellectual institutions— acade-
mies, universities, institutes, journals, and so on — for at least the first half of
the nineteenth century, as a host of British intellectuals, including Arnold,
Carlyle, Mill, and George Eliot, noted and lamented. But the extraordinary
compensation for this discrepancy came in the steady rise and gradually
undisputed dominance of the British novel. (Only as North Africa assumes
a sort of metropolitan presence in French culture after 1870 do we see a
comparable aesthetic and cultural formation begin to flow: this is the period
when Loti, the early Gide, Daudet, Maupassant, Mille, Psichari, Malraux,
the exoticists like Segalen, and of course Camus project a global concor-
dance between the domestic and imperial situations.)
By the 1840s the English novel had achieved eminence as the aesthetic
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7 2
form and as a major intellectual voice, so to speak, in English society.
Because the novel gained so important a place in “the condition of England”
question, for example, we can see it also as participating in England’s
overseas empire. In projecting what Raymond Williams calls a "know-
able community” of Englishmen and women, Jane Austen, George Eliot,
and Mrs. Gaskell shaped the idea of England in such a way as to give it
identity, presence, ways of reusable articulation. 15 And part of such an idea
was the relationship between “home” and “abroad.” Thus England was
surveyed, evaluated, made known, whereas “abroad” was only referred to
or shown briefly without the kind of presence or immediacy lavished on
London, the countryside, or northern industrial centers such as Manchester
or Birmingham.
This steady, almost reassuring work done by the novel is unique to
England and has to be taken as an important cultural affiliation domestically
speaking, as yet undocumented and unstudied, for what took place in India,
Africa, Ireland, or the Caribbean. An analogy is the relationship between
Britain’s foreign policy and its finance and trade, a relationship which has
been studied. We get a lively sense of how dense and complex it was from
D.C.M. Platt’s classic (but still debated) study of it, Finance, Trade and Politics
in British Foreign Policy, iSij-igif, and how much the extraordinary twinning
of British trade and imperial expansion depended on cultural and social
factors such as education, journalism, intermarriage, and class. Platt speaks
of “social and intellectual contact [friendship, hospitality, mutual aid, com-
mon social and educational background] which energized the actual pres-
sure on British foreign policy,” and he goes on to say that “concrete evidence
[for the actual accomplishments of this set of contacts] has probably never
existed.” Nevertheless, if one looks at how the government’s attitude to such
issues as “foreign loans . . . the protection of bondholders, and the promotion
of contracts and concessions overseas” developed, one can see what he calls
a “departmental view,” a sort of consensus about the empire held by a whole
range of people responsible for it. This would “suggest how officials and
politicians were likely to react” 16
How best to characterize this view? There seems to be agreement among
scholars that until about 1870 British policy was (according to the early
Disraeli, for example) not to expand the empire but “to uphold and maintain
it and to protect it from disintegration.” 17 Central to this task was India,
which acquired a status of astonishing durability in “departmental” thought.
After 1870 (Schumpeter cites Disraeli’s Crystal Palace speech in 1872 as the
hallmark of aggressive imperialism, “the catch phrase of domestic policy”) 18
protecting India (the parameters kept getting larger) and defending against
other competing powers, e.g., Russia, necessitated British imperial expansion
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in Africa, and the Middle and Far East. Thereafter, in one area of the globe
after another, “Britain was indeed preoccupied with holding what she al-
ready had,” as Platt puts it, “and whatever she gained was demanded because
it helped her to preserve the rest. She belonged to the party of les satisfaits,
but she had to fight ever harder to stay with them, and she had by far the
most to lose.” 19 A “departmental view” of British policy was fundamentally
careful; as Ronald Robinson and John Gallagher put it in their redefinition
of Platt's thesis, “the British would expand by trade and influence if they
could, but by imperial rule if they must.” 20 We should not minimize or
forget, they remind us, that the Indian army was used in China three times
between 1829 and 1856, at least once in Persia (i 8 y< 5 ), Ethiopia and Singapore
(1867), Hong Kong (1868), Afghanistan (1878), Egypt (1882), Burma (1885),
Ngasse (1893), Sudan and Uganda (1896).
In addition to India, British policy obviously made the bulwark for impe-
rial commerce mainland Britain itself (with Ireland a continuous colonial
problem), as well as the so-called white colonies (Australia, New Zealand,
Canada, South Africa, and even the former American possessions). Continu-
ous investment and routine conservation of Britain’s overseas and home
territories were without significant parallel in other European or American
powers, where lurches, sudden acquisitions or losses, and improvisations
occurred far more frequently.
In short, British power was durable and continually reinforced. In the
related and often adjacent cultural sphere, that power was elaborated and
articulated in the novel, whose central continuous presence is not compara-
bly to be found elsewhere. But we must be as fastidious as possible. A novel
is neither a frigate nor a bank draft. A novel exists first as a novelist’s effort
and second as an object read by an audience. In time novels accumulate and
become what Harry Levin has usefully called an institution of literature, but
they do not ever lose either their status as events or their specific density as
part of a continuous enterprise recognized and accepted as such by readers
and other writers. But for all their social presence, novels are not reducible
to a sociological current and cannot be done justice to aesthetically, cultur-
ally, and politically as subsidiary forms of class, ideology, or interest
Equally, however, novels are not simply the product of lonely genius (as
a school of modern interpreters like Helen Vendler try to suggest), to be
regarded only as manifestations of unconditioned creativity. Some of the
most exciting recent criticism — Fredric Jameson’s The Political Unconscious
and David Miller’s The Novel and the Police are two celebrated examples 21 —
shows the novel generally, and narrative in particular, to have a sort of
regulatory social presence in West European societies. Yet missing from
these otherwise valuable descriptions are adumbrations of the actual world
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
in which the novels and narratives take place. Being an English writer meant
something quite specific and different from, say, being a French or Por-
tuguese writer. For the British writer, “abroad” was felt vaguely and ineptly
to be out there, or exotic and strange, or in some way or other “ours” to
control, trade in “freely,” or suppress when the natives were energized into
overt military or political resistance. The novel contributed significantly to
these feelings, attitudes, and references and became a main element in the
consolidated vision, or departmental cultural view, of the globe.
I should specify how the novelistic contribution was made and also,
conversely, how the novel neither deterred nor inhibited the more aggres-
sive and popular imperialist feelings manifest after 1880? 2 Novels are pic-
tures of reality at the very early or the very late stage in the reader’s
experience of them: in fact they elaborate and maintain a reality they inherit
front other novels, which they rearticulate and repopulate according to their
creator’s situation, gifts, predilections. Platt rightly stresses conservation in the
“departmental view”; this is significant for the novelist, too: the nineteenth-
century English novels stress the continuing existence (as opposed to revo-
lutionary overturning) of England. Moreover, they never advocate giving up
colonies, but take the long-range view that since they fall within the orbit
of British dominance, that dominance is a sort of norm, and thus conserved
along with the colonies.
What we have is a slowly built up picture with England— socially, politi-
cally, morally charted and differentiated in immensely fine detail — at the
center and a series of overseas territories connected to it at the peripheries.
The continuity of British imperial policy throughout the nineteenth cen-
tury — in fact a narrative — is actively accompanied by this novelistic pro-
cess, whose main purpose is not to raise more questions, not to disturb or
otherwise preoccupy attention, but to keep the empire more or less in place.
Hardly ever is the novelist interested in doing a great deal more than
mentioning or referring to India, for example, in Vanity Fair and Jane Eyre,
or Australia in Great Expectations. The idea is that (following the general
principles of free trade) outlying territories are available for use, at will, at
the novelist’s discretion, usually for relatively simple purposes such as
immigration, fortune, or exile. At the end of Hard Times, for example, Tom
is shipped off to the colonies. Not until well after mid-century did the
empire become a principal subject of attention in writers like Haggard,
Kipling, Doyle, Conrad as well as in emerging discourses in ethnography,
colonial administration, theory and economy, the historiography of non-
European regions, and specialized subjects like Orientalism, exoticism, and
mass psychology.
The actual interpretative consequences of this slow and steady structure
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of attitude and reference articulated by the novel are diverse, I shall specify
four. The first is that, in literary history, an unusual organic continuity can
be seen between the earlier narratives that are normally not considered to
have much to do with empire and the later ones explicitly about it Kipling
and Conrad are prepared for by Austen and Thackeray, Defoe, Scott, and
Dickens; they are also interestingly connected with their contemporaries
like Hardy and James, regularly supposed to be only coincidentally as-
sociated with the overseas exhibits presented by their rather more peculiar
novelistic counterparts. But both the formal characteristics and the contents
of all these novelists’ works belong to the same cultural formation, the
differences being those of inflection, emphasis, stress.
Second, the structure of attitude and reference raises the whole question
of power. Today’s critic cannot and should not suddenly give a novel
legislative or direct political authority: we must continue to remember that
novels participate in, are pan of, contribute to an extremely slow, in-
finitesimal politics that clarifies, reinforces, perhaps even occasionally ad-
vances perceptions and attitudes about England and the world. It is striking
that never, in the novel, is that world beyond seen except as subordinate and
dominated, the English presence viewed as regulative and normative. Pan
of the extraordinary novelty of Aziz’s trial in A Passage to India is that Forster
admits that “the flimsy framework of the court”” cannot be sustained be-
cause it is a “fantasy” that compromises British power (real) with impartial
justice for Indians (unreal). Therefore he readily (even with a sort of frus-
trated impatience) dissolves the scene into India’s “complexity,” which
twenty-four years before in Kipling’s Kim was just as present. The main
difference between the two is that the impinging disturbance of resisting
natives had been thrust on Forster’s awareness. Forster could not ignore
something that Kipling easily incorporated (as when he rendered even the
famous “Mutiny” of 1857 as mere waywardness, not as a serious Indian
objection to British rule).
There can be no awareness that the novel underscores and accepts the
disparity in power unless readers actually register the signs in individual
works, and unless the history of the novel is seen to have the coherence of
a continuous enterprise. Just as the sustained solidity and largely unwaver-
ing “departmental view” of Britain’s outlying territories were maintained
throughout the nineteenth century, so too, in an altogether literary way, was
the aesthetic (hence cultural) grasp of overseas lands maintained as a part of
the novel, sometimes incidental, sometimes very important Its “con-
solidated vision” came in a whole series of overlapping affirmations, by
which a near unanimity of view was sustained. That this was done within the
terms of each medium or discourse (the novel, travel writing, ethnography)
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
and not in terms imposed from outside, suggests conformity, collaboration,
willingness but not necessarily an overtly or explicitly held political agenda,
at least not until later in the century, when the imperial program was itself
more explicit and more a matter of direct popular propaganda.
A third point can best be made by rapid illustration. All through Vanity
Fair there are allusions to India, but none is anything more than incidental
to the changes in Becky’s fortunes, or in Dobbin’s, Joseph’s, and Amelia’s
positions. All along, though, we are made aware of the mounting contest
between England and Napoleon, with its climax at Waterloo. This overseas
dimension scarcely makes Vanity Fair a novel exploiting what Henry James
was later to call “the international theme,” any more than Thackeray be-
longs to the club of Gothic novelists like Walpole, Radcliffe, or Lewis who
set their works rather fancifully abroad. Yet Thackeray and, I would argue,
all the major English novelists of the mid-nineteenth century, accepted a
globalized world-view and indeed could not (in most cases did not) ignore
the vast overseas reach of British power. As we saw in the little example
cited earlier from Dombey and Son, the domestic order was tied to, located in,
even illuminated by a specifically English order abroad Whether it is Sir
Thomas Bertram’s plantation in Antigua or, a hundred years later, the
Wilcox Nigerian rubber estate, novelists aligned the holding of power and
privilege abroad with comparable activities at home.
When we read the novels attentively, we get a far more discriminating
and subtle view than the baldly “global" and imperial vision I have described
thus far. This brings me to the fourth consequence of what I have been
calling the structure of attitude and reference. In insisting on the integrity
of an artistic work, as we must, and refusing to collapse the various contribu-
tions of individual authors into a general scheme, we must accept that the
structure connecting novels to one another has no existence outside the
novels themselves, which means that one gets the particular, concrete expe-
rience of “abroad” only in individual novels; conversely that only individual
novels can animate, articulate, embody the relationship, for instance, be-
tween England and Africa. This obliges critics to read and analyze, rather
than only to summarize and judge, works whose paraphrasable content they
might regard as politically and morally objectionable. On the one hand,
when in a celebrated essay Chinua Achebe criticizes Conrad’s racism, he
either says nothing about or overrides the limitations placed on Conrad by
the novel as an aesthetic form. On the other hand, Achebe shows that he
understands how the form works when, in some of his own novels, he
rewrites — painstakingly and with originality — Conrad . 24
All of this is especially true of English fiction because only England had
an overseas empire that sustained and protected itself over such an area, for
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11
such a long time, with such envied eminence. It is true that France rivalled
it, but, as I have said elsewhere, the French imperial consciousness is inter-
mittent until the late nineteenth century, the actuality too impinged on by
England, too lagging in system, profit, extent In the main, though, the
nineteenth-century European novel is a cultural form consolidating but also
refining and articulating the authority of the status quo. However much
Dickens, for example, stirs up his readers against the legal system, provincial
schools, or the bureaucracy, his novels finally enact what one critic has called
a “fiction of resolution .” 25 The most frequent figure for this is the reunifica-
tion of the family, which in Dickens’s case always serves as a microcosm of
society. In Austen, Balzac, George Eliot, and Flaubert — to take several
prominent names together — the consolidation of authority includes, indeed
is built into the very fabric of, both private property and marriage, institu-
tions that are only rarely challenged.
The crucial aspect of what I have been calling the novel’s consolidation
of authority is not simply connected to the functioning of social power and
governance, but made to appear both normative and sovereign, that is,
self-validating in the course of the narrative. This is paradoxical only if one
forgets that the constitution of a narrative subject, however abnormal or
unusual, is still a social act par excellence, and as such has behind or inside it
the authority of history and society. There is first the authority of the
author — someone writing out the processes of society in an acceptable
institutionalized manner, observing conventions, following patterns, and so
forth. Then there is the authority of the narrator, whose discourse anchors
the narrative in recognizable, and hence existentially referential, circum-
stances. Last, there is what might be called the authority of the community,
whose representative most often is the family but also is the nation, the
specific locality, and the concrete historical moment. Together these func-
tioned most energetically, most noticeably, during the early nineteenth
century as the novel opened up to history in an unprecedented way. Con-
rad’s Marlow inherits all this directly.
Lukacs studied with remarkable skill the emergence of history in the
European novel 26 — how Stendhal and particularly ScOtt place their narra-
tives in and as part of a public history, making that history accessible to
everyone and not, as before, only to kings and aristocrats. The novel is thus
a concretely historical narrative shaped by the real history of real nations.
Defoe locates Crusoe on an unnamed island somewhere in an outlying
region, and Moll is sent to the vaguely apprehended Carolinas, but Thomas
Bertram and Joseph Sedley derive specific wealth and specific benefits from
historically annexed territories — the Caribbean and India, respectively — at
specific historical moments. And, as Lukacs shows so persuasively, Scott
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7 8
constructs the British polity in the form of a historical society working its
way out of foreign adventures 27 (the Crusades, for example) and internecine
domestic conflict (the 1745 rebellion, the warring Highland tribes) to become
the settled metropolis resisting local revolution and continental provocation
with equal success. In France, history confirms the post-revolutionary reac-
tion embodied by the Bourbon restoration, and Stendhal chronicles its — to
him — lamentable achievements. Later Flaubert does much the same for 1848.
But the novel is assisted also by the historical work of Michelet and Macau-
lay, whose narratives add density to the texture of national identity.
The appropriation of history, the historicization of the past, the narrativi-
zation of society, all of which give the novel its force, include the accumula-
tion and differentiation of social space, space to be used for social purposes.
This is much more apparent in late-nineteenth-century, openly colonial
fiction: in Kipling’s India, for example, where the natives and the Raj inhabit
differently ordained spaces, and where with his extraordinary genius Kipling
devised Kim, a marvelous character whose youth and energy allow him to
explore both spaces, crossing from one to the other with daring grace as if
to confound the authority of colonial barriers. The barriers within social
space exist in Conrad too, and in Haggard, in Loti, in Doyle, in Gide,
Psichari, Malraux, Camus, and Orwell.
Underlying social space are territories, lands, geographical domains, the
actual geographical underpinnings of the imperial, and also the cultural
contest. To think about distant places, to colonize them, to populate or
depopulate them: all of this occurs on, about, or because of land. The actual
geographical possession of land is what empire in the final analysis is all
about. At the moment when a coincidence occurs between real control and
power, the idea of what a given place was (could be, might become), and an
actual place — at that moment the struggle for empire is launched. This
coincidence is the logic both for Westerners taking possession of land and,
during decolonization, for resisting natives reclaiming it. Imperialism and
the culture associated with it affirm both the primacy of geography and an
ideology about control of territory. The geographical sense makes projec-
tions — imaginative, cartographic, military, economic, historical, or in a gen-
eral sense cultural. It also makes possible the construction of various kinds
of knowledge, all of them in one way or another dependent upon the
perceived character and destiny of a particular geography.
Three fairly restricted points should be made here. First, the spatial
differentiations so apparent in late-nineteenth-century novels do not simply
and suddenly appear there as a passive reflection of an aggressive “age of
empire,” but are derived in a continuum from earlier social discriminations
already authorized in earlier historical and realistic novels.
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79
Jane Austen sees the legitimacy of Sir Thomas Bertram’s overseas proper-
ties as a natural extension of the calm, the order, the beauties of Mansfield
Park, one central estate validating the economically supportive role of the
peripheral other. And even where colonies are not insistently or even per-
ceptibly in evidence, the narrative sanctions a spatial moral order, whether
in the communal restoration of the town of Middlemarch centrally impor-
tant during a period of national turbulence, or in the outlying spaces of
deviation and uncertainty seen by Dickens in London’s underworld, or in
the Bronte stormy heights.
A second point As the conclusions of the novel confirm and highlight an
underlying hierarchy of family, property, nation, there is also a very strong
spatial bereness imparted to the hierarchy. The astounding power of the
scene in Bleak House where Lady Dedlock is seen sobbing at the grave of her
long dead husband grounds what we have felt about her secret past — her cold
and inhuman presence, her disturbingly unfertile authority — in the grave-
yard to which as a fugitive she has fled. This contrasts not only with the
disorderly jumble of the Jellyby establishment (with its eccentric ties to
Africa), but also with the favored house in which Esther and her guardian-
husband live. The narrative explores, moves through, and finally endows
these places with confirmatory positive and/or negative values.
This moral commensuration in the interplay between narrative and do-
mestic space is extendable, indeed reproducible, in the world beyond metro-
politan centers like Paris or London. In turn such French or English places
have a kind of export value: whatever is good or bad about places at home
is shipped out and assigned comparable virtue or vice abroad. When in his
inaugural lecture in 1870 as Slade Professor at Oxford, Ruskin speaks of
England’s pure race, he can then go on to tell his audience to turn England
into a “country again [that is] a royal throne of kings; a sceptred isle, for all
the world a source of light, a centre of peace,” The allusion to Shakespeare
is meant to re-establish and relocate a preferential feeling for England. This
time, however, Ruskin conceives of England as functioning formally on a
world scale; the feelings of approbation for the island kingdom that Shake-
speare had imagined principally but not exclusively confined at home are
rather startlingly mobilized for imperial, indeed aggressively colonial ser-
vice. Become colonists, found “colonies as fast and as far as [you are] able,”
he seems to be saying. 28
My third point is that such domestic cultural enterprises as narrative
fiction and history (once again I emphasize the narrative component) are
premised on the recording, ordering, observing powers of the central autho-
rizing subject, or ego. To say of this subject, in a quasi-tautological manner,
that it writes because it can write is to refer not only to domestic society but
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
to the outlying world. The capacity to represent, portray, characterize, and
depict is not easily available to just any member of just any society; more-
over, the “what” and “how” in the representation of “things,” while allowing
for considerable individual freedom, are circumscribed and socially regu-
lated. We have become very aware in recent years of the constraints upon
the cultural representation of women, and the pressures that go into the
created representations of inferior classes and races. In all these areas —
gender, class, and race — criticism has correctly focussed upon the institu-
tional forces in modern Western societies that shape and set limits on the
representation of what are considered essentially subordinate beings; thus
representation itself has been characterized as keeping the subordinate sub-
ordinate, the inferior inferior.
( n )
Jane Austen and Empire
W e are on solid ground with V. G. Kiernan when he says that “em-
pires must have a mould of ideas or conditioned reflexes to flow
into, and youthful nations dream of a great place in the world as young men
dream of fame and fortunes.” 29 It is, as I have been saying throughout, too
simple and reductive to argue that everything in European or American
culture therefore prepares for or consolidates the grand idea of empire. It is
also, however, historically inaccurate to ignore those tendencies — whether
in narrative, political theory, or pictorial technique — that enabled, encour-
aged, and otherwise assured the West’s readiness to assume and enjoy the
experience of empire. If there was cultural resistance to the notion of an
imperial mission, there was not much support for that resistance in the main
departments of cultural thought. Liberal though he was, John Stuart Mill —
as a telling case in point — could still say, “The sacred duties which civilized
nations owe to the independence and nationality of each other, are not
binding towards those to whom nationality and independence are certain
evil, or at best a questionable good.” Ideas like this were not original with
Mill; they were already current in the English subjugation of Ireland during
the sixteenth century and, as Nicholas Canny has persuasively demon-
strated, were equally useful in the ideology of English colonization in the
Americas. 30 Almost all colonial schemes begin with an assumption of native
backwardness and general inadequacy to be independent, “equal,” and fit
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81
Why that should be so, why sacred obligation on one front should not be
binding on another, why rights accepted in one may be denied in another,
are questions best understood in the terms of a culture well-grounded in
moral, economic, and even metaphysical norms designed to approve a
satisfying local, that is European, order and to permit the abrogation of the
right to a similar order abroad. Such a statement may appear preposterous
or extreme. In fact, it formulates the connection between Europe’s well-
being and cultural identity on the one hand and, on the other, the subjuga-
tion of imperial realms overseas rather too fastidiously and circumspectly.
Part of our difficulty today in accepting any connection at all is that we tend
to reduce this complicated matter to an apparently simple causal one, which
in turn produces a rhetoric of blame and defensiveness. I am not saying that
the major factor in early European culture was that it caused late-nineteenth-
cenrury imperialism, and T am not implying that all the problems of the
formerly colonial world should be blamed on Europe. I am saying, however,
that European culture often, if not always, characterized itself in such a way
as simultaneously to validate its own preferences while also advocating those
preferences in conjunction with distant imperial rule. Mill certainly did: he
always recommended that India not be given independence. When for vari-
ous reasons imperial rule concerned Europe more intensely after 1880, this
schizophrenic habit became useful.
The first thing to be done now is more or less to jettison simple causality
in thinking through the relationship between Europe and the non-European
world, and lessening the hold on our thought of the equally simple temporal
sequence. We must not admit any notion, for instance, that proposes to show
that Wordsworth, Austen, or Coleridge, because they wrote before 1857,
actually caused the establishment of formal British governmental rule over
India after 1857. We should try to discern instead a counterpoint between
overt patterns in British writing about Britain and representations of the
world beyond the British Isles. The inherent mode for this counterpoint is
not temporal but spatial. How do writers in the period before the great age
of explicit, programmatic colonial expansion — the “scramble for Africa,”
say — situate and see themselves and their work in the larger world? We shall
find them using striking but careful strategies, many of them derived from
expected sources — positive ideas of home, of a nation and its language, of
proper order, good behavior, moral values.
But positive ideas of this son do more than validate “our” world. They
also tend to devalue other worlds and, perhaps more significantly from a
retrospective point of view, they do not prevent or inhibit or give resistance
to horrendously unattractive imperialist practices. No, cultural forms like
the novel or the opera do not cause people to go out and imperialize —
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Carlyle did not drive Rhodes directly, and he certainly cannot be "blamed”
for the problems in today’s southern Africa — but it is genuinely troubling to
see how little Britain’s great humanistic ideas, institutions, and monuments,
which we still celebrate as having the power ahistorically to command our
approval, how little they stand in the way of the accelerating imperial
process. We are entitled to ask how this body of humanistic ideas co-existed
so comfortably with imperialism, and why — until the resistance to imperial-
ism in the imperial domain, among Africans, Asians, Latin Americans, devel-
oped — there was little significant opposition or deterrence to empire at
home. Perhaps the custom of distinguishing “our” home and order from
“theirs" grew into a harsh political rule for accumulating more of “them” to
rule, study, and subordinate. In the great, humane ideas and values promul-
gated by mainstream European culture, we have precisely that “mould of
ideas or conditioned reflexes” of which Kiernan speaks, into which the
whole business of empire later flowed.
The extent to which these ideas are actually invested in geographical
distinctions between real places is the subject of Raymond Williams’s richest
book, The Country and the City. His argument concerning the interplay be-
tween rural and urban places in England admits of the most extraordinary
transformations — from the pastoral populism of Langland, through Ben
Jonson’s country-house poems and the novels of Dickens’s London, right up
to visions of the metropolis in twentieth-century literature. Mainly, of
course, the book is about how English culture has dealt with land, its
possession, imagination, and organization. And while he does address the
export of England to the colonies, Williams does so, as I suggested earlier,
in a less focussed way and less expansively than the practice actually war-
rants. Near the end of The Country and the City he volunteers that “from at
least the mid-nineteenth century, and with important instances earlier,
there was this larger context [the relationship between England and the
colonies, whose effects on the English imagination “have gone deeper than
can easily be traced”] within which every idea and every image was con-
sciously and unconsciously affected.” He goes on quickly to cite “the idea
of emigration to the colonies” as one such image prevailing in various novels
by Dickens, the Brontes, Gaskell, and rightly shows that “new rural socie-
ties,” all of them colonial, enter the imaginative metropolitan economy of
English literature via Kipling, early Orwell, Maugham. After 1880 there
comes a “dramatic extension of landscape and social relations”: this corre-
sponds more or less exactly with the great age of empire. 91
It is dangerous to disagree with Williams, yet I would venture to say that
if one began to look for something like an imperial map of the world in
English literature, it would turn up with amazing insistence and frequency
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Jane Austen and Empire
8 ?
well before the mid-nineteenth century. And turn up not only with the inert
regularity suggesting something taken for granted, but — more interest-
ingly — threaded through, forming a vital pan of the texture of linguistic and
cultural practice. There were established English offshore interests in Ire-
land, America, the Caribbean, and Asia from the sixteenth century on, and
even a quick inventory reveals poets, philosophers, historians, dramatists,
statesmen, novelists, travel writers, chroniclers, soldiers, and fabulists who
prized, cared for, and traced these interests with continuing concern. (Much
of this is well discussed by Peter Hulme in Colonial Encounters .) 32 Similar
points may be made for France, Spain, and Portugal, not only as overseas
powers in their own right, but as competitors with the British. How can we
examine these interests at work in modern England before the age of empire,
i.e., during the period between 1800 and 1870?
We would do well to follow Williams’s lead, and look first at that period
of crisis following upon England’s wide-scale land enclosure at the end of
the eighteenth century. The old organic rural communities were dissolved
and new ones forged under the impulse of parliamentary activity, industrial-
ization, and demographic dislocation, but there also occurred a new process
of relocating England (and in France, France) within a much larger circle of
the world map. During the first half of the eighteenth century, Anglo-French
competition in North America and India was intense; in the second half
there were numerous violent encounters between England and France in the
Americas, the Caribbean, and the Levant, and of course in Europe itself. The
major pre-Romantic literature in France and England contains a constant
stream of references to the overseas dominions: one thinks not only of
various Encyclopedists, the Abb6 Raynal, de Brosses, and Volney, but also
of Edmund Burke, Beckford, Gibbon, Johnson, and William Jones.
In 1902 J. A. Hobson described imperialism as the expansion of nationality,
implying that the process was understandable mainly by considering expan-
sion as the more important of the two terms, since “nationality” was a fully
formed, fixed quantity, 33 whereas a century before it was still in the process
of beingformed, at home and abroad as well. In Physics and Politics (1887) Walter
Bagehot speaks with extraordinary relevance of “nation- making.” Between
France and Britain in the late eighteenth century there were two contests:
the battle for strategic gains abroad — in India, the Nile delta, the Western
Hemisphere — and the battle for a triumphant nationality. Both battles con-
trast “Englishness” with “the French,” and no matter how intimate and
closeted the supposed English or French “essence” appears to be, it was
almost always thought of as being (as opposed to already) made, and being
fought out with the other great competitor. Thackeray’s Becky Sharp, for
example, is as much an upstart as she is because of her half-French heritage.
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
Earlier in the century, the upright abolitionist posture of Wilberforce and his
allies developed partly out of a desire to make life harder for French
hegemony in the Antilles. 34
These considerations suddenly provide a fascinatingly expanded dimen-
sion to Mansfield Park (1814), the most explicit in its ideological and moral
affirmations of Austen’s novels. Williams once again is in general dead right
Austen’s novels express an “attainable quality of life,” in money and prop-
erty acquired, moral discriminations made, the right choices put in place, the
correct “improvements” implemented, the finely nuanced language affirmed
and classified. Yet, Williams continues,
What [Cobbett] names, riding past on the road, are classes. Jane Austen,
from inside the houses, can never see that, for all the intricacy of her
social description. All her discrimination is, understandably, internal
and exclusive. She is concerned with the conduct of people who, in the
complications of improvement, are repeatedly trying to make them-
selves into a class. But where only one class is seen, no classes are
seen. 3S
As a general description of how Austen manages to elevate certain “moral
discriminations” into “an independent value,” this is excellent Where Mans-
field Park is concerned, however, a good deal more needs to be said, giving
greater explicitness and width to Williams’s survey. Perhaps then Austen,
and indeed, pre-imperialist novels generally, will appear to be more impli-
cated in the rationale for imperialist expansion than at first sight they have
been.
After Lukacs and Proust, we have become so accustomed to thinking of
the novel’s plot and structure as constituted mainly by temporality that we
have overlooked the function of space, geography, and location. For it is not
only the very young Stephen Dedalus, but every other young protagonist
before him as well, who sees himself in a widening spiral at home, in Ireland,
in the world. Like many other novels, Mansfield Park is very precisely about
a series of both small and large dislocations and relocations in space that
occur before, at the end of the novel, Fanny Price, the niece, becomes the
spiritual mistress of Mansfield Park. And that place itself is located by
Austen at the center of an arc of interests and concerns spanning the
hemisphere, two major seas, and four continents.
As in Austen’s other novels, the central group that finally emerges with
marriage and property “ordained" is not based exclusively upon blood. Her
novel enacts the disaffiliation (in the literal sense) of some members of a
family, and the affiliation between others and one or two chosen and tested
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Jane Austen and Empire
outsiders: in other words, blood relationships are not enough to assure
continuity, hierarchy, authority, both domestic and international. Thus
Fanny Price — the poor niece, the orphaned child from the outlying city of
Portsmouth, the neglected, demure, and upright wallflower — gradually ac-
quires a status commensurate with, even superior to, that of most of her
more fortunate relatives. In this pattern of affiliation and in her assumption
of authority, Fanny Price is relatively passive. She resists the misdemeanors
and the importunings of others, and very occasionally she ventures actions
on her own: all in all, though, one has the impression that Austen has designs
for her that Fanny herself can scarcely comprehend, just as throughout the
novel Fanny is thought of by everyone as “comfort” and “acquisition"
despite herself. Like Kipling’s Kim O’Hara, Fanny is both device and instru-
ment in a larger pattern, as well as a fully fledged novelistic character.
Fanny, like Kim, requires direction, requires the patronage and outside
authority that her own impoverished experience cannot provide. Her con-
scious connections are to some people and to some places, but the novel
reveals other connections of which she has faint glimmerings that neverthe-
less demand her presence and service. She comes into a situation that opens
with an intricate set of moves which, taken together, demand sorting out,
adjustment, and rearrangement. Sir Thomas Bertram has been captivated by
one Ward sister, the others have not done well, and “an absolute breach”
opens up; their “circles were so distinct,” the distances between them so
great that they have been out of touch for eleven years ; 36 fallen on hard
times, the Prices seek out the Bertrams. Gradually, and even though she is
not the eldest, Fanny becomes the focus of attention as she is sent to
Mansfield Park, there to begin her new life. Similarly, the Bertrams have
given up London (the result of Lady Bertram’s “little ill health and a great
deal of indolence”) and come to reside entirely in the country.
What sustains this life materially is the Bertram estate in Antigua, which
is not doing well. Austen takes pains to show us two apparently disparate but
actually convergent processes: the growth of Fanny’s importance to the
Bertrams’ economy, including Antigua, and Fanny’s own steadfastness in the
face of numerous challenges, threats, and surprises. In both, Austen’s imagi-
nation works with a steel-like rigor through a mode that we might call
geographical and spatial clarification. Fanny’s ignorance when she arrives at
Mansfield as a frightened ten-year-old is signified by her inability to “put the
map of Europ,e together ,” 37 and for much of the first half of the novel the
action is concerned with a whole range of issues whose common denomina-
tor, misused or misunderstood, is space: not only is Sir Thomas in Antigua
to make things better there and at home, but at Mansfield Park, Fanny,
Edmund, and her aunt Norris negotiate where she is to live, read, and work,
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
where fires are to be lit; the friends and cousins concern themselves with the
improvement of estates, and the importance of chapels (i.e,, religious author-
ity) to domesticity is envisioned and debated. When, as a device for stirring
things up, the Crawfords suggest a play (the tinge of France that hangs a
little suspiciously over their background is significant), Fanny’s discomfiture
is polarizingly acute. She cannot participate, cannot easily accept that rooms
for living are turned into theatrical space, although, with all its confusion of
roles and purposes, the play, Kotzebue’s Lovers' Vows, is prepared for anyway.
We are to surmise, I think, that while Sir Thomas is away tending his
colonial garden, a number of inevitable mismeasurements (explicitly as-
sociated with feminine “lawlessness”) will occur. These are apparent not
only in innocent strolls by the three pairs of young friends through a park,
in which people lose and catch sight of one another unexpectedly, but most
clearly in the various flirtations and engagements between the young men
and women left without true parental authority, Lady Bertram being indif-
ferent, Mrs. Norris unsuitable. There is sparring, innuendo, perilous taking
on of roles: all of this of course crystallizes in preparations for the play, in
which something dangerously close to libertinage is about to be (but never
is) enacted. Fanny, whose earlier sense of alienation, distance, and fear
derives from her first uprooting, now becomes a sort of surrogate conscience
about what is right and how far is too much. Yet she has no power to
implement her uneasy awareness, and until Sir Thomas suddenly returns
from “abroad,” the rudderless drift continues.
When he does appear, preparations for the play are immediately stopped,
and in a passage remarkable for its executive dispatch, Austen narrates the
re-establishment of Sir Thomas’s local rule:
It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them
occupied but a small part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the
wonted concerns of his Mansfield life, to see his steward and his
bailiff — to examine and compute — and, in the intervals of business, to
walk into his stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations; but active
and methodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his
seat as master of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to
work in pulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard
room, and given the scene painter his dismissal, long enough to justify
the pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.
The scene painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room,
ruined all the coachman’s sponges, and made five of the under-servants
idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or
two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had
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Jane Austen and Empire
87
been, even to the destruction of every unbound copy of ‘Lovers’ Vows’
in the house, for he was burning all that met his eye . 38
The force of this paragraph is unmistakable. Not only is this a Crusoe
setting things in order: it is also an early Protestant eliminating all traces of
frivolous behavior. There is nothing in Mansfield Park that would contradict
us, however, were we to assume that Sir Thomas does exactly the same
things — on a larger scale — in his Antigua “plantations.” Whatever was
wrong there — and the internal evidence garnered by Warren Roberts sug-
gests that economic depression, slavery, and competition with France were
at issue 39 — Sir Thomas was able to fix, thereby maintaining his control over
his colonial domain. More clearly than anywhere else in her fiction, Austen
here synchronizes domestic with international authority, making it plain
that the values associated with such higher things as ordination, law, and
propriety must be grounded firmly in actual rule over and possession of
territory. She sees clearly that to hold and rule Mansfield Park is to hold and
rule an imperial estate in close, not to say inevitable association with it.
What assures the domestic tranquility and attractive harmony of one is the
productivity and regulated discipline of the other.
Before both can be fully secured, however, Fanny must become more
actively involved in the unfolding action. From frightened and often victim-
ized poor relation she is gradually transformed into a directly participating
member of the Bertram household at Mansfield Park. For this, I believe,
Austen designed the second part of the book, which contains not only the
failure of the Edmund-Mary Crawford romance as well as the disgraceful
profligacy of Lydia and Henry Crawford, but Fanny Price’s rediscovery and
rejection of her Portsmouth home, the injury and incapacitation of Tom
Bertram (the eldest son), and the launching of William Price’s naval career.
This entire ensemble of relationships and events is finally capped with
Edmund’s marriage to Fanny, whose place in Lady Bertram’s household is
taken by Susan Price, her sister. It is no exaggeration to interpret the
concluding sections of Mansfield Park as the coronation of an arguably
unnatural (or at very least, illogical) principle at the heart of a desired
English order. The audacity of Austen’s vision is disguised a little by her
voice, which despite its occasional archness is understated and notably
modest. But we should not misconstrue the limited references to the outside
world, her lightly stressed allusions to work, process, and class, her apparent
ability to abstract (in Raymond Williams’s phrase) “an everyday uncompro-
mising morality which is in the end separable from its social basis.” In fact
Austen is far less diffident, far more severe.
The clues are to be found in Fanny, or rather in how rigorously we are
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
able to consider her. True, her visit to her original Portsmouth home, where
her immediate family still resides, upsets the aesthetic and emotional bal-
ance she has become accustomed to at Mansfield Park, and true she has
begun to take its wonderful luxuries for granted, even as being essential.
These are fairly routine and natural consequences of getting used to a new
place. But Austen is talking about two other matters we must not mistake.
One is Fanny’s newly enlarged sense of what it means to be at home; when
she takes stock of things after she gets to Portsmouth, this is not merely a
matter of expanded space.
Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house, and thinness of
the walls, brought every thing so close to her, that, added to the fatigue
of her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew how to
bear it. Within the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan having
disappeared with the others, there were soon only her father and herself
remaining; and he taking out a newspaper — the accustomary loan of a
neighbour, applied himself to studying it, without seeming to recollect
her existence. The solitary candle was held between himself and the
paper, without any reference to her possible convenience; but she had
nothing to do, and was glad to have the light screened from her aching
head, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.
She was at home. But alas! it was not such a home, she had not such
a welcome, as — she checked herself; she was unreasonable. ... A day
or two might shew the difference. She only was to blame. Yet she
thought it would not have been so at Mansfield. No, in her uncle’s
house there would have been a consideration of times and seasons, a
regulation of subject, a propriety, an attention towards every body
which there was not here . 40
In too small a space, you cannot see clearly, you cannot think clearly, you
cannot have regulation or attention of the proper sort. The fineness of
Austen’s detail (“the solitary candle was held between himself and the paper,
without any reference to her possible convenience”) renders very precisely
the dangers of unsociability, of lonely insularity', of diminished awareness
that are rectified in larger and better administered spaces.
That such spaces are not available to Fanny by direct inheritance, legal
dtle, by propinquity, contiguity, or adjacence (Mansfield Park and Ports-
mouth are separated by many hours’ journey) is precisely Austen’s point To
earn the right to Mansfield Park you must first leave home as a kind of
indentured servant or, to put the case in extreme terms, as a kind of
transported commodity — this, clearly, is the fate of Fanny and her brother
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William — but then you have the promise of future wealth. I think Austen
sees what Fanny does as a domestic or small-scale movement in space that
corresponds to the larger, more openly colonial movements of Sir Thomas,
her mentor, the man whose estate she inherits. The two movements depend
on each other.
The second more complex matter about which Austen speaks, albeit
indirecdy, raises an interesting theoretical issue. Austen’s awareness of em-
pire is obviously very different, alluded to very much more casually, than
Conrad’s or Kipling’s. In her time the British were extremely active in the
Caribbean and in South America, notably Brazil and Argentina. Austen
seems only vaguely aware of the details of these activities, although the
sense that extensive West Indian plantations were important was fairly
widespread in metropolitan England. Antigua and Sir Thomas’s trip there
have a definitive function in Mansfield Park, which, 1 have been saying, is
both incidental, referred to only in passing, and absolutely crucial to the
action. How are we to assess Austen’s few references to Antigua, and what
are we to make of them interpretatively?
My contention is that by that very odd combination of casualness and
stress, Austen reveals herself to be assuming (just as Fanny assumes, in both
senses of the word) the importance of an empire to the situation at home.
Let me go further. Since Austen refers to and uses Antigua as she does in
Mansfield Park, there needs to be a commensurate effort on the part of her
readers to understand concretely the historical valences in the reference; to
put it differendy, we should try to understand what she referred to, why she
gave it the importance she did, and why indeed she made the choice, for she
might have done something different to establish Sir Thomas’s wealth. Let
us now calibrate the signifying power of the references to Antigua in Mans-
field Park; how do they occupy the place they do, what are they doing there?
According to Austen we are to conclude that no matter how isolated and
insulated the English place (e.g., Mansfield Park), it requires overseas suste-
nance. Sir Thomas’s property in the Caribbean would have had to be a sugar
plantation maintained by slave labor (not abolished until the 1830s): these are
not dead historical facts but, as Austen certainly knew, evident historical
realities. Before the Anglo-French competition the major distinguishing
characteristic of Western empires (Roman, Spanish, and Portuguese) was
that the earlier empires were bent on loot, as Conrad puts it, on the transport
of treasure from the colonies to Europe, with very little attention to devel-
opment, organization, or system within the colonies themselves; Britain and,
to a lesser degree, France both wanted to make their empires long-term,
profitable, ongoing concerns, and they competed in this enterprise, nowhere
more so than in the colonies of the Caribbean, where the transport of slaves,
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the functioning of large sugar plantations, and the development of sugar
markets, which raised the issues of protectionism, monopolies, and price —
all these were more or less constantly, competitively at issue.
Far from being nothing much “out there,” British colonial possessions in
the Antilles and Leeward Islands were during Jane Austen’s time a crucial
setting for Anglo-French colonial competition. Revolutionary ideas from
France were being exported there, and there was a steady decline in British
profits: the French sugar plantations were producing more sugar at less cost.
However, slave rebellions in and out of Haiti were incapacitating France
and spurring British interests to intervene more directly and to gain greater
local power. Still, compared with its earlier prominence for the home mar-
ket, British Caribbean sugar production in the nineteenth century had to
compete with alternative sugar-cane supplies in Brazil and Mauritius, the
emergence of a European beet-sugar industry, and the gradual dominance
of free-trade ideology and practice.
In Mansfield Park — both in its formal characteristics and in its contents — a
number of these currents converge. The most important is the avowedly
complete subordination of colony to metropolis. Sir Thomas, absent from
Mansfield Park, is never seen as present in Antigua, which elicits at most a
half dozen references in the novel. There is a passage, a part of which I
quoted earlier, from John Stuart Mill’s Principles of Political Economy that
catches the spirit of Austen’s use of Antigua. I quote it here in full:
These [outlying possessions of ours] are hardly to be looked upon as
countries, carrying on an exchange of commodities with other coun-
tries, but more properly as outlying agricultural or manufacturing
estates belonging to a larger community. Our West Indian colonies, for
example, cannot be regarded as countries with a productive capital of
their own . . . [but are rather] the place where England finds it conve-
nient to carry on the production of sugar, coffee and a few other
tropical commodities. All the capital employed is English capital; al-
most all the industry is carried on for English uses; there is little
production of anything except for staple commodities, and these are
sent to England, not to be exchanged for things exported to the colony
and consumed by its inhabitants, but to be sold in England for the
benefit of the proprietors there. The trade with the West Indies is
hardly to be considered an external trade, but more resembles the
traffic between town and country . 41
To some extent Antigua is like London or Portsmouth, a less desirable
setting than a country estate like Mansfield Park, but producing goods to be
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Jane Austen and Empire
consumed by everyone (by the early nineteenth century every Britisher
used sugar), although owned and maintained by a small group of aristocrats
and gentry. The Bertrams and the other characters in Mansfield Park are a
subgroup within the minority, and for them the island is wealth, which
Austen regards as being converted to propriety, order, and, at the end of the
novel, comfort, an added good. But why “added”? Because, Austen tells us
pointedly in the final chapters, she wants to “restore every body, not greatly
in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the
rest.” 42 -
This can be interpreted to mean first that the novel has done enough in
the way of destabilizing the lives of “every body” and must now set them
at rest: actually Austen says this explicitly, in a bit of meta-fictional impa-
tience, the novelist commenting on her own work as having gone on long
enough and now needing to be brought to a close. Second, it can mean that
“every body” may now be finally permitted to realize what it means to be
properly at home, and at rest, without the need to wander about or to come
and go. (This does not include young William, who, we assume, will con-
tinue to roam the seas in the British navy on whatever commercial and
political missions may still be required. Such matters draw from Austen only
a last brief gesture, a passing remark about William’s “continuing good
conduct and rising fame") As for those finally resident in Mansfield Park
itself, more in the way of domesticated advantages is given to these now fully
acclimatized souls, and to none more than to Sir Thomas. He understands
for the first time what has been missing in his education of his children, and
he understands it in the terms paradoxically provided for him by unnamed
outside forces, so to speak, the wealth of Antigua and the imported example
of F anny Price. Note here how the curious alternation of outside and inside
follows the pattern identified by Mill of the outside becoming the inside by
use and, to use Austen’s word, “disposition”:
Here [in his deficiency of training, of allowing Mrs. Norris too great a
role, of letting his children dissemble and repress feeling] had been
grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually grew to feel
that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan of education.
Some thing must have been wanting within, or time would have worn
away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active principle,
had been wanting, that they had never been properly taught to govern
their inclinations and tempers, by that sense of duty which can alone
suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their religion, but
never required to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished for
elegance and accomplishments — the authorized object of their youth —
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91
could have had no useful influence that way, no moral effect on the
mind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had been directed
to the understanding and manners, not the disposition; and of the
necessity of self-denial and humility, he feared they had never heard
from any lips that could profit them. 43
What was wanting within was in fact supplied by the wealth derived from
a West Indian plantation and a poor provincial relative, both brought in to
Mansfield Park and set to work. Yet on their own, neither the one -nor the
other could have sufficed; they require each other and then, more important,
they need executive disposition, which in turn helps to reform the rest of the
Bertram circle. All this Austen leaves to her reader to supply in the way of
literal explication.
And that is what reading her entails. But all these things having to do with
the outside brought in seem unmistakably there in the suggestiveness of her
allusive and abstract language. A principle “wanting within ” is, I believe,
intended to evoke for us memories of Sir Thomas’s absences in Antigua, or
the sentimental and near-whimsical vagary on the pan of the three variously
deficient Ward sisters by which a niece is displaced from one household to
another. But that the Bertrams did become better if not altogether good, that
some sense of duty was imparted to them, that they learned to govern their
inclinations and tempers and brought religion into daily practice, that they
“directed disposition”: all of this did occur because outside (or rather outly-
ing) factors were lodged properly inward, became native to Mansfield Park,
with Fanny the niece its final spiritual mistress, and Edmund the second son
its spiritual master.
An additional benefit is that Mrs. Norris is dislodged; this is described as
“the great supplementary comfort of Sir Thomas’s life.” 44 Once the princi-
ples have been interiorized, the comforts follow: Fanny is setded for the time
being at Thornton Lacey “with every attention to her comfort”; her home
later becomes “the home of affection and comfort”; Susan is brought in “first
as a comfort to Fanny, then as an auxiliary, and at last as her substitute” 45
when the new import takes Fanny’s place by Lady Bertram’s side. The
pattern established at the outset of the novel clearly continues, only now it
has what Austen intended to give it all along, an internalized and retrospec-
uvely guaranteed rationale. This is the rationale that Raymond Williams
describes as “an everyday, uncompromising morality which is in the end
separable from its social basis and which, in other hands, can be turned
against it”
1 have tried to show that the morality in fact is not separable from its social
basis: right up to the last sentence, Austen affirms and repeats the geographi-
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93
cal process of expansion involving trade, production, and consumption that
predates, underlies, and guarantees the morality. And expansion, as Gal-
lagher reminds us, whether “through colonial rule was liked or disliked, [its]
desirability through one mode or another was generally accepted. So in the
event there were few domestic constraints upon expansion.” 46 Most critics
have tended to forget or overlook that process, which has seemed less
important to critics than Austen herself seemed to think. But interpreting
Jane Austen depends on who does the interpreting, when it is done, and no
less important, from where it is done. If with feminists, with great cultural
critics sensitive to history and class like Williams, with cultural and stylistic
interpreters, we have been sensitized to the issues their interests raise, we
should now proceed to regard the geographical division of the world — after
all significant to Mansfield Park — as not neutral (any more than class and
gender are neutral) but as politically charged, beseeching the attention and
elucidation its considerable proportions require. The question is thus not
only how to understand and with what to connect Austen’s morality and its
social basis, but also what to read of it.
Take once again the casual references to Antigua, the ease with which Sir
Thomas’s needs in England are met by a Caribbean sojourn, the uninflected,
unreflective citations of Antigua (or the Mediterranean, or India, which is
where Lady Bertram, in a fit of distracted impatience, requires that William
should go “ ‘that I may have a shawl. I think I will have two shawls.’ ”) 47
They stand for a significance “out there” that frames the genuinely impor-
tant action here, but not for a great significance. Yet these signs of “abroad”
include, even as they repress, a rich and complex history, which has since
achieved a status that the Bertrams, the Prices, and Austen herself would not,
could not recognize. To call this “the Third World” begins to deal with the
realities but by no means exhausts the political or cultural history.
We must first take stock of Mansfield Park's prefigurations of a later
English history as registered in fiction. The Bertrams’ usable colony in
Mansfield Park can be read as pointing forward to Charles Gould’s San Tom6
mine in Nosrromo, or to the Wilcoxes’ Imperial and West African Rubber
Company in Forster’s Howards End, or to any of these distant but convenient
treasure spots in Great Expectations, Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea, Heart of
Darkness — resources to be visited, talked about, described, or appreciated for
domestic reasons, for local metropolitan benefit. If we think ahead to these
other novels, Sir Thomas’s Antigua readily acquires a slightly greater den-
sity than the discrete, reticent appearances it makes in the pages of Mansfield
Park. And already our reading of the novel begins to open up at those points
where ironically Austen was most economical and her critics most (dare one
say it?) negligent. Her “Antigua” is therefore not just a slight but a definite
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
way of marking the outer limits of what Williams calls domestic improve-
ments, or a quick allusion to the mercantile venruresomeness of acquiring
overseas dominions as a source for local fortunes, or one reference among
many attesting to a historical sensibility suffused not just with manners and
courtesies but with contests of ideas, struggles with Napoleonic France,
awareness of seismic economic and social change during a revolutionary
period in world history.
Second, we must see “Antigua” held in a precise place in Austen’s moral
geography, and in her prose, by historical changes that her novel rides like
a vessel on a mighty sea. The Bertrams could not have been possible without
the slave trade, sugar, and the colonial planter class; as a social type Sir
Thomas would have been familiar to eighteenth- and early-nineteenth-
century readers who knew the powerful influence of the class through
politics, plays (like Cumberland’s The West Indian), and many other public
activities (large houses, famous parties and social rituals, well-known com-
mercial enterprises, celebrated marriages). As the old system of protected
monopoly gradually disappeared and as a new class of settler-planters dis-
placed the old absentee system, the West Indian interest lost dominance:
cotton manufacture, an even niore open system of trade, and abolition of the
slave trade reduced the power and prestige of people like the Bertrams,
whose frequency of sojourn in the Caribbean then decreased.
Thus Sir Thomas’s infrequent trips to Antigua as an absentee plantation
owner reflea the diminishment in his class’s power, a reduction direaly
expressed in the title of Lowell Ragatz’s classic The Fall of the Planter Class
in the British Caribbean, 1763-1834 (1928). But is what is hidden or allusive in
Austen made sufficiendy explicit more than one hundred years later in
Ragatz? Does the aesthetic silence or discretion of a great novel in 1814
receive adequate explication in a major work of historical research a full
century later? Can we assume that the process of interpretation is fulfilled,
or will it continue as new material comes to light?
For all his learning Ragatz still finds it in himself to speak of “the Negro
race” as having the following characteristics.- “he stole, he lied, he was
simple, suspicious, inefficient, irresponsible, lazy, superstitious, and loose in
his sexual relations.” 48 Such “history” as this therefore happily gave way to
the revisionary work of Caribbean historians like Eric Williams and C.L.R.
James, and more recently Robin Blackburn, in The Overthrow of Colonial
Slavery, 1776-184$; in these works slavery and empire are shown to have
fostered the rise and consolidation of capitalism well beyond the old planta-
tion monopolies, as well as to have been a powerful ideological system
whose original connection to specific economic interests may have gone, but
whose efFeas continued for decades.
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The political and moral ideas of the age are to be examined in the very
closest relation to the economic development. . . .
An outworn interest, whose bankruptcy smells to heaven in historical
perspective, can exercise an obstructionist and disruptive effect which
can only be explained by the powerful services it had previously
rendered and the entrenchment previously gained. . . .
The ideas built on these interests continue long after the interests have
been destroyed and work their old mischief, which is all the more
mischievous because the interests to which they corresponded no lon-
ger exist. 49
Thus Etic Williams in Capitalism and Slavery (1961). The question of interpre-
tation, indeed of writing itself, is tied to the question of interests, which we
have seen are at work in aesthetic as well as historical writing, then and now.
We must not say that since Mansfield Park is a novel, its affiliations with a
sordid history are irrelevant or transcended, not only because it is irrespon-
sible to do so, but because we know too much to say so in good faith. Having
read Mansfield Park as part of the structure of an expanding imperialist
venture, one cannot simply restore it to the canon of “great literary master-
pieces” — to which it most certainly belongs — and leave it at that. Rather, I
think, the novel steadily, if unobtrusively, opens up a broad expanse of
domestic imperialist culture without which Britain’s subsequent acquisition
of territory would not have been possible.
I have spent time on Mansfield Park to illustrate a type of analysis infre-
quently encountered in mainstream interpretations, or for that matter in
readings rigorously based in one or another of the advanced theoretical
schools. Yet only in the global perspective implied by jane Austen and her
characters can the novel’s quite astonishing general position be made clear.
I think of such a reading as completing or complementing others, not
discounting or displacing them. And it bears stressing that because Mansfield
Park connects the actualities of British power overseas to the domestic
imbroglio within the Bertram estate, there is no way of doing such readings
as mine, no way of understanding the “structure of attitude and reference”
except by working through the novel. Without reading it in full, we would
fail to understand the strength of that structure and the way it was activated
and maintained in literature. But in reading it carefully, we can sense how
ideas about dependent races and territories were held both by foreign-office
executives, colonial bureaucrats, and military strategists and by intelligent
novel-readers educating themselves in the fine points of moral evaluation,
literary balance, and stylistic finish.
There is a paradox here in reading Jane Austen which I have been
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
impressed by but can in no way resolve. All the evidence says that even the
most routine aspects of holding slaves on a West Indian sugar plantation
were cruel sniff. And everything we know about Austen and her values is at
odds with the cruelty of slavery. Fanny Price reminds her cousin that after
asking Sir Thomas about the slave trade, “There was such a dead silence” 50
as to suggest that one world could not be connected with the other since
there simply is no common language for both. That is true. But what
stimulates the extraordinary discrepancy into life is the rise, decline, and fall
of the British empire itself and, in its aftermath, the emergence of a post-
colonial consciousness. In order more accurately to read works like Mansfield
Park, we have to see them in the main as resisting or avoiding that other
setting, which their formal inclusiveness, historical honesty, and prophetic
suggestiveness cannot completely hide. In time there would no longer be a
dead silence when slavery was spoken of, and the subject became central to
a new understanding of what Europe was.
It would be silly to expect Jane Austen to treat slavery with anything like
the passion of an abolitionist or a newly liberated slave. Yet what I have
called the rhetoric of blame, so often now employed by subaltern, minority,
or disadvantaged voices, attacks her, and others like her, retrospectively, for
being white, privileged, insensitive, complicit. Yes, Austen belonged to a
slave-owning society, but do we therefore jettison her novels as so many
trivial exercises in aesthetic frumpery? Not at all, I would argue, if we take
seriously our intellectual and interpretative vocation to make connections,
to deal with as much of the evidence as possible, fully and actually, to read
what is there or not there, above all, to see complementarity and interdepen-
dence instead of isolated, venerated, or formalized experience that excludes
and forbids the hybridizing intrusions of human history.
Mansfield Park is a rich work in that its aesthetic intellectual complexity
requires that longer and slower analysis that is also required by its geograph-
ical problematic, a novel based in an England relying for the maintenance
of its style on a Caribbean island. When Sir Thomas goes to and comes from
Antigua, where he has property, that is not at all the same thing as coming
to and going from Mansfield Park, where his presence, arrivals, and depar-
tures have very considerable consequences. But precisely because Austen is
so summary in one context, so provocatively rich in the other, precisely
because of that imbalance we are able to "move in on the novel, reveal and
accentuate the interdependence scarcely mentioned on its brilliant pages. A
lesser work wears its historical affiliation more plainly; its worldliness is
simple and direct, the way a jingoistic ditty during the Mahdist uprising or
the 183-7 Indian Rebellion connects directly to the situation and constituency
that coined it. Mansfield Park encodes experiences and does not simply
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97
repeat them. From our later perspective we can interpret Sir Thomas’s
power to come and go in Antigua as stemming from the muted national
experience of individual identity, behavior, and “ordination,” enacted with
such irony and taste at Mansfield Park. The task is to lose neither a true
historical sense of the first, nor a full enjoyment or appreciation of the
second, all the while seeing both together.
( I” )
The Cultural Integrity of Empire
U ntil after the mid— nineteenth century the kind of easy yet sustained
commerce between Mansfield Park (novel and place) and an overseas
territory has little equivalent in French culture. Before Napoleon, there
existed of course an ample French literature of ideas, travels, polemics, and
speculation about the non -European world. One thinks of Volney, for in-
stance, or Montesquieu (some of this is discussed in Tzvetan Todorov’s
recent Nous etles autres ). SI Without significant exception this literature either
was specialized — as, for example, in the Abb6 Raynal’s celebrated report on
the colonies — or belonged to a genre (e.g., moral debate) that used such
issues as mortality, slavery, or corruption as instances in a general argument
about mankind. The Encyclopedists and Rousseau are excellent illustrations
of this latter case. As traveller, memoirist, eloquent self-psychologist and
romantic, Chateaubriand embodies an individualism of accent and style
without peer; certainly, it would be very hard to show that in Rene or Atala
he belonged to a literary institution like the novel, or to learned discourses
such as historiography or linguistics. Besides, his narratives of American and
Near Eastern life are too eccentric to be easily domesticated or emulated.
France thus shows a somewhat fitful, perhaps even sporadic but certainly
limited and specialized literary or cultural concern with those realms where
traders, scholars, missionaries, or soldiers went and where in the East or the
Americas they encountered their British counterparts. Before taking Algeria
in 1830, F ranee had no India and, I’ve argued elsewhere, it had momentarily
brilliant experiences abroad that were returned to more in memory or
literary trope than in actuality. One celebrated example is the Abb£ Poiret’s
Lettres de Barbarie (1785), which describes an often uncomprehending but
stimulating encounter between a Frenchman and Muslim Africans. The best
intellectual historian of French imperialism, Raoul Girardet, suggests that
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
between i8ij and 1870 colonial currents in France existed aplenty, but none
of them dominated the others, or was situated prominently or crucially in
French society. He specifies arms dealers, economists, the military, and
missionary circles as responsible for keeping French imperial institutions
alive domestically, although unlike Plan and other srudents of British impe-
rialism, Giradet cannot identify anything so evident as a French “depart-
mental view,” S2
About French literary culrure it would be easy to draw the wrong conclu-
sions, and so a series of contrasts with England are worth listing. England’s
widespread, unspecialized, and easily accessible awareness of overseas inter-
ests has no direct French equivalent. The French equivalents of Austen’s
country gentry or Dickens’s business people who make casual references to
the Caribbean or India are not easily to be found. Still, in two or three rather
specialized ways France’s overseas interests appear in cultural discourse.
One, interestingly enough, is the huge, almost iconic figure of Napoleon (as
in Hugo’s poem “Lui”), who embodies the romantic French spirit abroad,
less a conqueror (which in fact he was, in Egypt) than a brooding, melo-
dramatic presence whose persona acts as a mask through which reflections
are expressed. Lukacs has astutely remarked on the tremendous influence
exerted by Napoleon’s career on those of novelistic heroes in French and
Russian literature; in the early nineteenth century the Corsican Napoleon
also has an exotic aura.
Stendhal’s young men are incomprehensible without him. In Le Rouge et
le woirjulien Sorel is completely dominated by his reading of Napoleon (in
particular the St. Helena memoirs), with their fitful grandeur, sense of
Mediterranean dash, and impetuous arrivime. The replication of such an
ambiance injulien’s career takes an extraordinary series of turns, all of them,
in a France now marked by mediocrity and scheming reaction, deflating the
Napoleonic legend without detracting from its power over Sorel. So power-
ful is the Napoleonic ambiance in Le Rouge et le ttoir that it comes as an
instructive surprise to note that Napoleon’s career is not directly alluded to
anywhere in the novel. In fact the only reference to a world outside France
comes after Mathilde has sent her declaration of love to Julien, and Stendhal
characterizes her Parisian existence as involving more risk than a voyage to
Algeria. Typically, then, at exactly the moment in 1830 when France secures
its major imperial province, it turns up in a lone Stendhalian reference
connoting danger, surprise, and a sort of calculated indifference. This is
remarkably unlike the easy allusions to Ireland, India, and the Americas that
slip in and out of British literature at the same time.
A second vehicle for culturally appropriating French imperial concerns is
the set of new and rather glamorous sciences originally enabled by Napole-
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The Cultural Integrity of Empire
99
onic overseas adventures. This perfectly refleas the social structure of
French knowledge, dramatically unlike England’s amateurish, often embar-
rassingly demodi intellectual life. The great institutes of learning in Paris
(enhanced by Napoleon) have a dominating influence in the rise of ar-
cheology, linguistics, historiography, Orientalism, and experimental biology
(many of them actively participating in the Description de I’Egppte). Typically,
novelists cite academically regulated discourse about the East, India, and
Africa — Balzac in La Peau de chagrin or La Cousine Bette, for instance — with
a knowingness and sheen of expertise quite un-English. In the writings of
British residents abroad, from Lady Wordey Montagu to the Webbs, one
finds a language of casual observation; and in colonial “experts” (like Sir
Thomas Bertram and the Mills) a studied but basically unincorporated and
unofficial attitude; in administrative or official prose, of which Macaulay’s
1835 Minute on Indian Education is a famous example, a haughty but
still somehow personal obduracy. Rarely is any of this the case in early-
nineteenth-century French culture, where the official prestige of the acad-
emy and of Paris shape every utterance.
As I have argued, the power even in casual conversation to represent what
is beyond metropolitan borders derives from the power of an imperial
society, and that power takes the discursive form of a reshaping or reorder-
ing of “raw” or primitive data into the local conventions of European
narrative and formal utterance, or, in the case of France, the systematics of
disciplinary order. And these were under no obligation to please or persuade
a “native” African, Indian, or Islamic audience: indeed they were in most
influential instances premised on the silence of the native. When it came to
what lay beyond metropolitan Europe, the arts and the disciplines of repre-
sentation — on the one hand, fiction, history and travel writing, painting; on
the other, sociology, administrative or bureaucratic writing, philology, racial
theory — depended on the powers of Europe to bring the non-European
world into representations, the better to be able to see it, to master it, and,
above all, to hold it. Philip Curtin’s two-volume Image of Africa and Bernard
Smith’s European Vision and the South Pacific are perhaps the most extended
analyses of the practice available. A good popular characterization is pro-
vided by Basil Davidson in his survey of writing about Africa until the
mid-twentieth century.
The literature of [African] exploration and conquest is as vast and
varied as those processes themselves. Yet with a few outstanding excep-
tions the records are built uniquely to a single domination attitude:
they are the journals of men who look at Africa resolutely from the
outside. I am not saying that many of them could have been expected
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to do otherwise: the important point is that the quality of their observa-
tion was circumscribed within a cramping limit, and they must be read
today with this in mind. If they tried to understand the minds and
actions of Africans they knew, it was by the way, and it was rare. Nearly
all of them were convinced they were faced by “primeval man,” by
humanity as it had been before history began, by societies which
lingered in the dawn of time. [Brian Street’s important book The Savage
in Literature details the steps by which in academic and popular litera-
ture this was shown to be true.] This point of view marched in step with
Europe’s overwhelming expansion of power and wealth, with its politi-
cal strength and resilience and sophistication, with its belief in some-
how being the elected continent of God. What otherwise honorable
explorers thought and did may be seen in the writings of men like
Henry Stanley or in the actions of men like Cecil Rhodes and his
mineral-hunting agents, ready as they were to represent themselves as
honest allies of their African friends so long as the treaties were
secured — the treaties through which “effective occupation” could be
proved to each other by the governments or private interests which
they served and formed.”
All cultures tend to make representations of foreign cultures the better to
master or in some way control them. Yet not all cultures make representa-
tions of foreign cultures and in fact master or control them. This is the
distinction, I believe, of modern Western cultures. It requires the study of
Western knowledge or representations of the non-European world to be a
study of both those representations and the political power they express.
Late-nineteenth-century artists like Kipling and Conrad, or for that matter
mid-century figures like G£r6me and Flaubert, do not merely reproduce the
outlying territories: they work them out, or animate them, using narrative
technique and historical and exploratory attitudes and positive ideas of the
sort provided by thinkers like Max Muller, Renan, Charles T emple, Darwin,
Benjamin Kidd, Emerich de Vattel. All of these developed and accentuated
the essentialist positions in European culture proclaiming that Europeans
should rule, non-Europeans be ruled. And Europeans did rule.
We are now reasonably well aware of how dense this material is, and how
widespread its influence. Take, for example, studies by Stephen Jay Gould
and Nancy Stepan on the power of racial ideas in the world of nineteenth-
century scientific discovery, practice, and institutions. 54 As they show, there
was no significant dissent from theories of Black inferiority, from hierarchies
of advanced or undeveloped (later “subject”) races. These conditions were
either derived from or in many instances applied sometimes wordlessly to
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overseas territories where Europeans had what they regarded as direct
evidence of lesser species. And even as European power grew disproportion-
ately with that of the enormous non-European imperium, so too grew the
power of schemata that assured the white race its unchallenged authority.
No area of experience was spared the unrelenting application of these
hierarchies. In the system of education designed for India, students were
taught not only English literature but the inherent superiority of the English
race. Contributors to the emerging science of ethnographic observation in
Africa, Asia, and Australia, as described by George Stocking, carried with
them scrupulous tools of analysis and also an array of images, notions,
quasi-scientific concepts about barbarism, primitivism, and civilization; in
the nascent discipline of anthropology, Darwinism, Christianity, utilitarian-
ism, idealism, racial theory, legal history, linguistics, and the lore of intrepid
travellers mingled in bewildering combination, none of which wavered,
however, when it came to affirming the superlative values of white (i.e.,
English) civilization.”
The more one reads in this matter, and the more one reads the modem
scholars on it, the more impressive is its fundamental insistence and repeti-
tiveness when it came to “others.” To compare Carlyle’s grandiose revalua-
tions of English spiritual life in Past and Present , for instance, with what he
says about Blacks thete or in his “Occasional Discourse on the Nigger
Question” is to note two strikingly apparent factors. One is that Carlyle’s
energetic animadversions on revitalizing Britain, awakening it to work,
organic connections, love of unrestricted industrial and capitalist develop-
ment, and the like do nothing to animate “Quashee,” the emblematic Black
whose “ugliness, idleness, rebellion” are doomed forever to subhuman status.
Carlyle is frank about this in The Nigger Question:
No; the gods wish besides pumpkins [the particular plant favored by
Carlyle’s “niggers"], that spices and valuable products be grown in
their West Indies; this much they have declared in so making the West
Indies: — infinitely more they wish, that industrious men occupy their
West Indies, not indolent two-legged cattle however “happy” over
their abundant pumpkins! Both these things, we may be assured, the
immortal gods have decided upon, passed their eternal Act of Parlia-
ment for: and both of them, though all terrestrial Parliaments and
entities oppose it to the death, shall be done. Quashee, if he will not
help in bringing-out the spices will get himself made a slave again
(which state will be a little less ugly than his present one), and with
beneficent whip, since other methods avail not, will be compelled to
work.”
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The lesser species are offered nothing to speak of, while England' is
expanding tremendously, its culture changing to one based upon industrial-
ization at home and protected free trade abroad. The status of the Black is
decreed by “eternal Act of Parliament,” so there is no real opportunity for
self-help, upward mobility, or even something better than outright slavery
(although Carlyle says he opposes slavery). The question is whether Car-
lyle’s logic and attitudes are entirely his own (and therefore eccentric) or
whether they articulate, in an extreme and distinctive way, essential atti-
tudes that are not so very different from Austen’s a few decades before or
John Stuart Mill's a decade after.
The similarities are remarkable, and the differences between the in-
dividuals equally great, for the whole weight of the culture made it hard to
be otherwise. Neither Austen nor Mill offers a non-white Caribbean any
status imaginatively, discursively, aesthetically, geographically, economi-
cally other than that of sugar producer in a permanently subordinate posi-
tion to the English. This, of course, is the concrete meaning of domination
whose other side is productivity. Carlyle’s Quashee is like Sir Thomas’s
Antiguan possessions: designed to produce wealth intended for English use.
So the opportunity for Quashee to be silently there for Carlyle is equivalent
to working obediently and unobtrusively to keep the British economy and
trade going.
The second thing to note about Carlyle’s writing on the subject is that it
is not obscure, or occult, or esoteric. What he means about Blacks he says,
and he is also very frank about the threats and punishments he intends to
mete out. Carlyle speaks a language of total generality, anchored in unshaka-
ble certainties about the essence of races, peoples, cultures, all of which need
little elucidation because they are familiar to his audience. He speaks a lingua
franca for metropolitan Britain: global, comprehensive, and with so vast a
social authority as to be accessible to anyone speaking to and about the
nation. This lingua franca locates England at the focal point of a world also
presided over by its power, illuminated by its ideas and culture, kept pro-
ductive by the attitudes of its moral teachers, artists, legislators.
One hears similar accents in Macaulay in the 1830s and then again four
decades later, largely unchanged, in Ruskin, whose 1870 Slade Lectures at
Oxford begin with a solemn invocation to England’s destiny. This is worth
quoting from at length, not because it shows Ruskin in a bad light, but
because it frames nearly everything in Ruskin’s copious writings on art. The
authoritative Cook and Weddenbum edition of Ruskin’s work includes a
footnote to this passage underscoring its importance for him; he regarded it
“as ‘the most pregnant and essential’ of all his teaching.” 57
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There is a destiny now possible to us — the highest ever set before a
nation to be accepted or refused. We are still undegenerate in race; a
race mingled of the best northern blood. We are not yet dissolute in
temper, but still have the firmness to govern, and the grace to obey. We
have taught a religion of pure mercy, which we must either now betray,
or learn to defend by fulfilling. And we are rich in an inheritance of
honour, bequeathed to us through a thousand years of noble history,
which it should be our daily thirst to increase with splendid avarice, so
that Englishmen, if it be a sin to covet honour, should be the most
offending souls alive. Within the last few years we have had the laws
of natural science opened to us with a rapidity which has been blinding
by its brightness; and means of transit and communication given to us,
which have made but one kingdom of the habitable globe. One king-
dom; — but who is to be its king? Is there to be no king in it, think you,
and every man to do that which is right in his own eyes? Or only kings
of terror, and the obscene empires of Mammon and Belial? Or will you,
youths of England, make your country again a royal throne of kings; a
sceptred isle, for all the world a source of light, a centre of peace;
mistress of Learning and of the Arts; — faithful guardian of great memo-
ries in the midst of irreverent and ephemeral visions; — faithful servant
to time-tried principles, under temptation from fond experiments and
licentious desires; and amidst the cruel and clamorous jealousies of the
nations, worshipped in her strange valour of goodwill towards men?
29. “Vexilla regis prodeunt” Yes, but of which king? There are the two
oriflammes; which shall we plant on the farthest island, — the one that
floats in heavenly fire, or that hangs heavy with foul tissue of terrestrial
gold? There is indeed a course of beneficent glory open to us, such as
never was yet offered to any poor groups of mortal souls. But it must
be — it is with us, now, “Reign or Die.” And it shall be said of this
country, “Fece per viltate, il gran rifiuto,” that refusal of the crown will
be, of all yet recorded in history, the shamefullest and most untimely.
And this is what she must either do, or perish: she must found colonies
as fast and as far as she is able, formed of her most energetic and
worthiest men; — seizing every piece of fruitful waste ground she can
set her foot on, and there teaching these her colonists that their chief
virtue is to be fidelity to their country, and that their first aim is to be
to advance the power of England by land and sea: and that, though they
live off a distant plot of ground, they are no more to consider them-
selves therefore disfranchised from their native land, than the sailors of
her fleets do, because they float of distant waves. So that literally, these
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IO4
colonies must be fastened fleets; and every man of them must be under
authority of captains and officers, whose better command is to be over
fields and streets instead of ships of the line; and England, in these her
motionless navies (or, in the true and mightiest sense, motionless
churches, ruled by pilots on the Galilean lake of all the world), is to
“expect every man to do his duty”; recognizing that duty is indeed
possible no less in peace than war; and that if we can get men, for little
pay, to cast themselves against cannon-mouths for love of England, we
may find men also who will plough and sow for her, who will behave
kindly and righteously for her, who will bring up their children to love
her, and who will gladden themselves in the brightness of her glory,
more than in all the light of tropic skies. But that they may be able to
do this, she must make her own majesty stainless; she must give them
thoughts of their home of which they can be proud. The England who
is to be mistress of half the earth, cannot remain herself a heap of
cinders, trampled by contending and miserable crowds; she must yet
again become the England she was once, and in all beautiful ways, —
more: so happy, so secluded, and so pure, that in her sky — polluted by
no unholy clouds — she may be able to spell rightly of every star that
heaven doth show; and in her fields, ordered and wide and fair, of every
herb that ships the dew; and under the green avenues of her enchanted
garden, a sacred Circe, true Daughter of the Sun, she must guide the
human arts, and gather the divine knowledge, of distant nations, trans-
formed from savageness to manhood, and redeemed from despairing
into peace . 58
Most, if not all, discussions of Ruskin avoid this passage. Yet, like Carlyle,
Ruskin speaks plainly; his meaning, while draped in allusions and tropes, is
unmistakable. England is to rule the world because it is the best; power is
to be used; its imperial competitors are unworthy; its colonies are to in-
crease, prosper, remain tied to it. What is compelling in Ruskin’s hortatory
tones is that he not only believes fervently in what he is advocating, but also
connects his political ideas about British world domination to his aesthetic
and moral philosophy. Insofar as he believes passionately in the one, he also
believes passionately in the other, the political and imperial aspect enfolding
and in a sense guaranteeing the aesthetic and moral one. Because England
is to be “king” of the globe, “a sceptred isle, for all the world a source of
light,” its youth are to be colonists whose first aim is to advance the power
of England by land and sea; because England must do that “or perish,” its art
and culture depend, in Ruskin’s view', on an enforced imperialism.
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Simply ignoring these views — which are readily at hand in almost any
text one looks at in the nineteenth century — is, I believe, like describing a
road without its setting in the landscape. Whenever a cultural form or
discourse aspired to wholeness or totality, most European writers, thinkers,
politicians, and mercantilists tended to think in global terms. And these were
not rhetorical flights but fairly accurate correspondences with their nations’
actual and expanding global reach. In an especially trenchant essay on
Tennyson, Ruskin’s contemporary, and the imperialism of The Idylls of the
King V. G. Kiernan examines the quite staggering range of British overseas
campaigns, all of them resulting in the consolidation or acquisition of terri-
torial gain, to which Tennyson was sometimes witness, sometimes (through
relatives) directly connected. Since the list was contemporaneous with Rus-
kin’s life, let us look at the items cited by Kiernan:
>839-42
opium wars in China
1840 s
wars against South African Kaffirs, New Zealand Maoris;
conquest of Punjab
18^4— 6
the Crimean war
i8y 4
conquest of lower Burma
1856-^0
second China war
1857
attack on Persia
1857-8
suppression of Indian Mutiny
1865
Governor Eyre case in Jamaica
1866
Abyssinian expedition
1870
repulse of Fenian expansion in Canada
1871
Maori resistance destroyed
1874
decisive campaign against Ashantis in West Africa
1882
conquest of Egypt
In addition, Kiernan refers to Tennyson as being “all for putting up with
no nonsense from the Afghans.” 59 What Ruskin, Tennyson, Meredith, Dick-
ens, Arnold, Thackeray, George Eliot, Carlyle, Mill — in short, the full roster
of significant Victorian writers — saw was a tremendous international display
of British power virtually unchecked over the entire world. It was both
logical and easy to identify themselves in one way or another with this
power, having through various means already identified themselves with
Britain domestically. To speak of culture, ideas, taste, morality, the family,
history, art, and education as they did, to represent these subjects, try to
influence them or intellectually and rhetorically mold them was perforce to
recognize them on a world scale. The British international identity, the
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scope of British mercantile and trade policy, the efficacy and mobility of
British arms provided irresistible models to emulate, maps to follow, actions
to live up to.
Thus representations of what lay beyond insular or metropolitan bounda-
ries came, almost from the start, to confirm European power. There is an
impressive circularity here: we are dominant because we have the power
(industrial, technological, military, moral), and they don’t, because of which
they are not dominant; they are inferior, we are superior . . . and so on and
on. One sees this tautology holding with a particular tenacity in British
views of Ireland and the Irish as early as the sixteenth century; it will operate
during the eighteenth century’ with opinions about white colonists in Aus-
tralia and the Americas (Australians remained an inferior race well into the
twentieth century); it gradually extends its sway to include practically the
whole world beyond British shores. A comparably repetitive and inclusive
tautology about what is overseas beyond France’s frontiers emerges in
French culture. At the margins of Western society, all the non-European
regions, whose inhabitants, societies, histories, and beings represented a
non-European essence, were made subservient to Europe, which in turn
demonstrably continued to control what was not Europe, and represented
the non-European in such a way as to sustain control.
This sameness and circularity were far from being either inhibiting or
repressive so far as thought, art, literature, and cultural discourse were
concerned. This centrally important truth needs constantly to be insisted
upon. The one relationship that does not change is the hierarchical
one between the metropole and overseas generally, between European-
Western-white-Christian-male and those peoples who geographically and
morally inhabit the realm beyond Europe (Africa, Asia, plus Ireland
and Australia in the British case). 60 Otherwise, a fantastic elaboration is
permitted on both sides of the relationship, with the general result being
that the identity of each is reinforced even as its variations on the West-
ern side increase. When the basic theme of imperialism is stated — for
example, by writers like Carlyle, who puts things very frankly — it gathers
to it by affiliation a vast number of assenting, yet at the same time more
interesting, cultural versions, each with its own inflections, pleasures, formal
characteristics.
The problem for the contemporary cultural critic is how to bring them
together meaningfully. It is certainly true, as various scholars have shown,
that an active consciousness of imperialism, of an aggressive, self-aware
imperial mission, does not become inescapable — often accepted, referred to,
actively concurred in — for European writers until the second pan of the
nineteenth century. (In England in the 1860s it was often the case that the
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word “imperialism” was used to refer, with some distaste, to France as a
country ruled by an emperor.)
But by the end of the nineteenth century, high or official culture still
managed to escape scrutiny for its role in shaping the imperial dynamic and
was mysteriously exempted from analysis whenever the causes, benefits, or
evils of imperialism were discussed, as they were almost obsessively. This
is one fascinating aspect of my subject— how culture participates in imperi-
alism yet is somehow excused for its role. Hobson, for instance, speaks
disparagingly of Giddings’s incredible idea of “retrospective consent” 61 (that
subject people be subjugated first and then assumed retroactively to have
consented to their enslavement), but he does not venture to ask where, or
how, the idea arose with people such as Giddings, with their fluent jargon
of self-congratulatory force. The great rhetoricians of theoretical justifica-
tion for: empire after 1880 — in France, Leroy-Beaulieu, in England, Seeley —
deploy a language whose imagery of growth, fertility, and expansion, whose
teleological structure of property and identity, whose ideological discrimi-
nation between “us” and “them” had already matured elsewhere — in fiction,
political science, racial theory, travel writing. In colonies like the Congo and
Egypt people such as Conrad, Roger Casement, and Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
record the abuses and the almost mindlessly unchecked tyrannies of the
white man, whereas at home Leroy-Beaulieu rhapsodizes that the essence of
colonization:
c’est dans l’ordre social ce qu’est dans l’ordre de la famille, je ne dis pas
la generation seulement, mais l’education Elle m&ne ^ la virilitd une
nouvelle sortie de ses entrailles La formation des societ^s humaines,
pas plus que la formation des hommes, ne doit etre abandonnee au
hasard. ... La colonisation est done un art qui se forme a l’£cole de
l’experience. . . . Le but de la colonisation, c’est de mettre une society
nouvelle dans les meilleures conditions de prosperite et de progr£s. 6;
(the social order is like the familial order in which not only generation
but education is important ... It gives to virility a new product from
its entrails. . . . The formation of human societies, any more than the
formation of men, must not be left to chance Therefore colonization
is an art formed in the school of experience The goal of colonization
is to place a new society in the best conditions for prosperity and
progress.)
In England by the late nineteenth century, imperialism was considered
essential to the well-being of British fertility generally and of motherhood
in particular; 63 and, as a close reading of Baden-Powell’s career reveals, his
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Boy Scout movement may be directly traced to the connection established
between empire and the nation’s health (fear of masturbation, degeneration,
eugenics). 44
There are hardly any exceptions then to the overwhelming prevalence of
ideas suggesting, often ideologically implementing, imperial rule. Let us
bring together what we can in a brief synthesis from a whole battery of
modern studies in different fields of scholarly endeavor, in my opinion
belonging together in the study of “culture and imperialism.” This may be
laid out systematically as follows:
1. On the fundamental ontological distinction between the West and the
rest of the world there is no disagreement. So strongly felt and perceived are
the geographical and cultural boundaries between the West and its non-
Western peripheries that we may consider these boundaries absolute. With
the supremacy of the distinction there goes what Johannes Fabian calls a
denial of “coevalness” in time, and a radical discontinuity in terms of human
space. 4S Thus “the Orient,” Africa, India, Australia are places dominated by
Europe, although populated by different species.
2. With the rise of ethnography — as described by Stocking, and also as
demonstrated in linguistics, racial theory, historical classification — there is
a codification of difference, and various evolutionary schemes going from
primitive to subject races, and finally to superior or civilized peoples. Gobi-
neau, Maine, Renan, Humboldt are centrally important. Such commonly
used categories as the primitive, savage, degenerate, natural, unnatural also
belong here. 44
3. Active domination of the non-Western world by the West, now a
canonically accepted branch of historical research, is appropriately global in
its scope (e.g., K. M. Panikar, Asia and Western Dominance ; or Michael Adas,
Machines as the Measure of Men: Science, Technology, and Ideologies of Western
Dominance ). 67 There is a convergence between the great geographical scope
of the empires, especially the British one, and universalizing cultural dis-
courses. Power makes this convergence possible, of course; with it goes the
ability to be in far-flung places, to learn about other people, to codify and
disseminate knowledge, to characterize, transport, install, and display in-
stances of other cultures (through exhibits, expeditions, photographs, paint-
ings, surveys, schools), and above all to rule them. All this in rum produces
what has been called “a duty” to natives, the requirement in Africa and
elsewhere to establish colonies for the “benefit” of the natives 49 or for the
“prestige” of the mother country. The rhetoric of la mission civilisatrice.
4. The domination is not inert, but informs metropolitan cultures in many
ways; in the imperial domain itself, its influence is only now beginning to be
studied on even the minutiae of daily life. A series of recent works 69 has
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described the imperial motif woven into the structures of popular culture,
fiction, and the rhetoric of history, philosophy, and geography. Thanks to the
work of Gauri Viswanathan, the system of British education in India, whose
ideology derives from Macaulay and Bentinck, is seen to be permeated with
ideas about unequal races and cultures that were transmitted in the class-
room; they were part of the curriculum and a pedagogy whose purpose,
according to Charles Trevelyan, an apologist, was
in a Platonic sense, to awaken the colonial subjects to a memory of their
innate character, corrupted as it had become . . . through the feudalistic
character of Oriental society. In this universalizing narrative, rescripted
from a scenario furnished earlier by missionaries, the British govern-
ment was refashioned as the ideal republic to which Indians must
naturally aspire as a spontaneous expression of self, a state in which the
British rulers won a figurative place as Platonic Guardians . 70
Since I am discussing an ideological vision implemented and sustained
not only by direct domination and physical force but much more effectively
over a long time by persuasive means, the quotidian processes of hegemony —
very often creative, inventive, interesting, and above all executive — yield
surprisingly well to analysis and elucidation. At the most visible level there
was the physical transformation of the imperial realm, whether through what
Alfred Crosby calls “ecological imperialism ,” 71 the reshaping of the physical
environment, or administrative, architectural, and institutional feats such as
the building of colonial cities (Algiers, Delhi, Saigon); at home, the emer-
gence of new imperial elites, cultures, and subcultures (schools of imperial
“hands,” institutes, departments, sciences — such as geography, anthropol-
ogy, etc. — dependent on a continuing colonial policy), new styles of art,
including travel photography, exotic and Orientalist painting, poetry, fic-
tion, and music, monumental sculpture, and journalism (as memorably char-
acterized by Maupassant’s Bel-Ami ,) 72
The underpinnings of such hegemony have been studied with considera-
ble insight in works such as Fabian’s Language and Colonial Power, Ranajit
Guha’s A Rule of Property for Bengal, and, as part of the Hobsbawm and Ranger
collection, Bernard Cohn’s “Representing Authority in Victorian India”
(also his remarkable studies on the British representation and surveying of
Indian society in An Anthropologist Among the Historians ). 73 These works show
the daily imposition of power in the dynamics of everyday life, the back-
and-forth of interaction among natives, the white man, and the institutions
of authority. But the important factor in these micro-physics of imperialism
is that in passing from “communication to command” and back again, a
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
unified discourse — or rather, as F abian puts it, “a field of passages, of cross-
ing and criss-crossing ideas” 74 — develops that is based on a distinction
between the Westerner and the native so integral and adaptable as to make
change almost impossible. We sense the anger and frustration this produced
over time from Fanon’s comments on the Manicheanism of the colonial
system and the consequent need for violence.
5. The imperial attitudes had scope and authority, but also, in a period of
expansion abroad and social dislocation at home, great creative power. I
refer here not only to “the invention of tradition” generally, but also to the
capacity to produce strangely autonomous intellectual and aesthetic images.
Orientalist, Africanist, and Americanist discourses developed, weaving in
and out of historical writing, painting, fiction, popular culture. Foucault’s
ideas about discourses are apt here; and, as Bernal has described it, a coherent
classical philology developed during the nineteenth century that purged
Attic Greece of its Semitic-African roots. In time — as Ronald Inden’s Imag-
ining India 75 tries to show — entire semi-independent metropolitan forma-
tions appeared, having to do with imperial possessions and their interests.
Conrad, Kipling, T. E. Lawrence, Malraux are among its narrators; its
ancestors and curators include Clive, Hastings, Dupleix, Bugeaud, Brooke,
Eyre, Palmerston, Jules Ferry, Lyautey, Rhodes; in these and the great
imperial narratives (The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, Heart of Darkness, Lord Jim,
Nostromo, La Voie royale), an imperial personality becomes distinct. The dis-
course of late-nineteenth-century imperialism is further fashioned by the
arguments of Seeley, Dilke, Froude, Leroy-Beaulieu, Harmand, and others,
many of them forgotten and unread today, but powerfully influential, even
prophetic then.
The images of Western imperial authority remain — haunting, strangely
attractive, compelling. Gordon at Khartoum, fiercely staring down the Suda-
nese dervishes in G. W. Joy’s famous painting, armed only with revolver and
sheathed sword; Conrad’s Kurtz in the center of Africa, brilliant, crazed,
doomed, brave, rapacious, eloquent; Lawrence of Arabia, at the head of his
Arab warriors, living the romance of the desert, inventing guerilla warfare,
hobnobbing with princes and statesmen, translating Homer, and trying to
hold on to Britain’s “Brown Dominion”; Cecil Rhodes, establishing coun-
tries, estates, funds as easily as other men might have children or start
businesses; Bugeaud, bringing Abdel Qader’s forces to heel, making Algeria
French; the concubines, dancing girls, odalisques of G^rome, Delacroix’s
Sardanapalus, Matisse’s North Africa, Saint-Saens’s Samson and Delilah. The
list is long and its treasures massive.
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The Empire at Work: Verdi’s Aida
I should like now to demonstrate how far and how inventively this mate-
rial affects certain areas of cultural activity, even those realms not today
associated with sordid imperial exploitation. We are fortunate that several
young scholars have developed the study of imperial power sufficiently so
as to let us observe the aesthetic component involved in the survey and
administration of Egypt and India. I have in mind, for example, Timothy
Mitchell’s Colonising Egypt? 6 where it is shown that the practice of building
model villages, discovering the intimacy of harem life, and instituting new
modes of military behavior in an ostensibly Ottoman, but really European,
colony not only reconfirmed European power, but also produced the added
pleasure of surveying and ruling the place. That bond between power and
pleasure in imperial rule is marvelously demonstrated by Leila Kinney and
Zeynep £elik in their study of belly-dancing, where the quasi-ethnographic
displays afforded by European expositions in fact came to be associated with
consumerist leisure based in Europe. 77 Two related offshoots of this are
excavated in T. J. Clark’s study of Manet and other Parisian painters, The
Painting of Modem Life, in particular the emergence of unusual leisure and
eroticism in metropolitan France, some of it affected by exotic models; and
Malek Alloula’s deconstructive reading of early-twentieth-century French
postcards of Algerian women, The Colonial Harm ™ Obviously the Orient as
a place of promise and power is very important here.
I want to suggest, however, why it is that my attempts at a contrapuntal
reading are perhaps eccentric or odd. First, although 1 proceed along gener-
ally chronological lines, from the beginning to the end of the nineteenth
century, I am not in fact trying to provide a consecutive sequence of events,
trends, or works. Each individual work is seen in terms both of its own past
and of later interpretations. Second, the overall argument is that these
cultural works which interest me irradiate and interfere with apparently
stable and impermeable categories founded on genre, periodization, nation-
ality, or style, those categories presuming that the West and its culture are
largely independent of other cultures, and of the worldly pursuits of power,
authority, privilege, and dominance. Instead, I want to show that the “struc-
ture of attitude and reference” is prevalent and influential in all sorts of
ways, forms, and places, even well before the officially designated age of
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empire; far from being autonomous or transcendent, it is close to the histori-
cal world; and far from being fixed and pure, it is hybrid, partaking of racial
superiority as much as of artistic brilliance, of political as of technical
authority, of simplifyingly reductive as of complex techniques.
Consider Aida, Verdi’s famous “Egyptian” opera. As a visual, musical, and
theatrical spectacle, Aida does a great many things for and in European
culture, one of which is to confirm the Orient as an essentially exotic, distant,
and antique place in which Europeans can mount certain shows of force.
Concurrently with the composition of Aida, European “universal” exposi-
tions routinely contained models of colonial villages, towns, courts, and the
like; the malleability and transportability of secondary or lesser cultures was
underlined. These subaltern cultures were exhibited before Westerners as
microcosms of the larger imperial domain. Little, if any, allowance was made
for the non-European except within this framework. 79
Aida is synonymous with “grand opera” of the uniquely high nineteenth-
century type. Along with a very small group of others, it has survived for
more than a century both as an immensely popular work and as one for
which musicians, critics, and musicologists have a healthy respect. Yet Aida’s
grandeur and eminence, although evident to anyone who has seen or heard
it, are complex matters about which all sons of speculative theories exist,
mostly about what connects Aida to its historical and cultural moment in the
West. In Opera: Tbe Extravagant Art, Herbert Lindenberger puts forward the
imaginative theory that Aida, Boris Godunov, and Gotterdammerung are operas
of 1870, tied respectively to archeology, nationalist historiography, and
philology. 80 Wieland W agner, who produced Aida at Berlin in 1962, treats the
opera, in his words, as “an African mystery.” He sees in it a prefiguration of
his grandfather’s Tristan, with an irreducible conflict at its core between
Ethos and Bios (“Verdis Aida ist ein Drama des anauflosbaren Konflikts
zwischen Ethos und Bios, zwischen dem moralischer Gesetz und den For-
derungen des Lebens”). 81 In his scheme, Amneris is the central figure,
dominated by a “Riesenphallus,” which hangs over her like a mighty club;
according to Opera, “Aida was mostly seen prostrate or cowering in the
background.” 82
Even if we overlook the vulgarity to which the famous Triumphal scene
in Act II has often lent itself, we should note that Aida climaxes a develop-
ment in style and vision that brought Verdi from Nabucco and / Lombardi in
the 1840s, through Rigoletto, Trovatore, Traviata, Simon Boccanegra, and Un Balk
in Maschera in the 1850s, to the problematic Forza del Destino and Don Carks
in the 1860s. During three decades Verdi had become the pre-eminent Italian
composer of his day, his career accompanying and seeming to comment on
the Risorgimento. Aida was the last public and political opera he wrote
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n 3
before he turned to the essentially domestic, albeit intense pair of operas
with which he ended his composing life, Otello and Falstaff. All the major
Verdi scholars — Julian Budden, Frank Walker, William Weaver, Andrew
Porter, Joseph Wechsberg — note that Aida not only reuses traditional music
forms like the cabaktta and concertato but adds to them a new chromaticism,
subtlety of orchestration, and dramatic streamlining not found in the work
of any other composer of the time except Wagner. Joseph Kerman’s demur-
ral, in Opera as Drama, is interesting for how much it acknowledges about
Aida’s singularity:
The result in Aida is, in my opinion, an almost constant disparity
between the particular glib simplicity of the libretto and the alarming
complexity of the musical expression — for of course Verdi’s technique
had never been so rich. Only Amneris comes to life; Aida is thoroughly
confused; Rhadames seems like a throwback, if not to Metastasio, at
least to Rossini. It goes without saying that some pages, numbers, and
scenes are beyond praise, reason enough for this opera’s great popular-
ity. Nevertheless, there is a curious falsity about Aida which is quite
unlike Verdi, and which recalls Meyerbeer more disturbingly than the
grand-opera apparatus of triumphs, consecrations, and brass bands . 83
This is undeniably persuasive as far as it goes; Kerman is correct about
Aida’s falsity, but he cannot quite explain what causes it. We should remem-
ber first of all that Verdi’s previous work attracted attention because it
involved and drew in its mostly Italian audience directly. His music-dramas
portrayed incorrigibly red-blooded heroes and heroines in the full splendor
of contests (often incestuous) over power, fame, and honor, but — as Paul
Robinson has convincingly argued in Opera and Ideas — they were almost all
intended as political operas, replete with rhetorical stridency, martial music,
and unbuttoned emotions. “Perhaps the most obvious component of Verdi’s
rhetorical style — to put the matter bluntly — is sheer loudness. He is with
Beethoven, among the noisiest of all major composers. . . . Like a political
orator, Verdi can’t remain still for long. Drop the needle at random on a
recording of a Verdi opera, and you will usually be rewarded with a substan-
tial racket .” 84 Robinson goes on to say that Verdi’s splendid noisiness is
effectively harnessed to such occasions as “parades, rallies and speeches ”, 85
which during the Risorgimento were heard as Verdi’s amplifications of
real-life occurrences. {Aida is no exception, with, for example, early in Act
II the tremendous ensemble piece “Su del nilo,” for several soloists and a
massed chorus.) It is now commonplace knowledge that tunes in Verdi’s
earlier operas ( Nabucco , I Lombardi, and Attila in particular) stimulated his
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H+
audiences to frenzies of participation, so immediate was their impact, the
clarity of their contemporary reference, and the sheer skill of his efficiency
at whipping everyone into urgent, big theatrical climaxes.
Whereas it had been Italy and Italians (with special force, paradoxically
enough, in Nabueeo) who were addressed in Verdi's earlier operas, despite the
often exotic or outre subject matter, in Aida it was Egypt and Egyptians of
early antiquity, a far remoter and less engaging phenomenon than Verdi had
ever set to music. Not that Aida wants for his customary political noisiness,
for surely Act II, scene z (the so-called Triumphal scene) is the biggest thing
Verdi wrote for the stage, a virtual jamboree of everything an opera house
can collect and parade. But Aida is self-limiting, atypically held in, and there
is no record of any participatory enthusiasm connected with it, even though
at New York’s Metropolitan Opera, for instance, it has been performed more
times than any other work. Verdi’s other works that dealt with remote or
alien cultures did not inhibit his audiences from identifying with them
anyway, and, like the earlier operas, Aida is about a tenor and a soprano who
want to make love but are prevented by a baritone and a mezzo. What are
the differences in Aida , and why did Verdi’s habitual mix produce so unusual
a blend of masterly competence and affective neutrality?
The circumstances of Aida's first production and under which it was
written are unique in Verdi’s career. The political and certainly the cultural
setting in which Verdi worked between early 1870 and late 1871 included not
only Italy, but imperial Europe and viceregal Egypt, an Egypt technically
within the Ottoman Empire but now gradually being established as a depen-
dent and subsidiary part of Europe. Aida's peculiarities — its subject matter
and setting, its monumental grandeur, its strangely unaffecting visual and
musical effects, its overdeveloped music and constricted domestic situation,
its eccentric place in Verdi’s career — require what I have been calling a
contrapuntal interpretation, assimilable neither to the standard view of
Italian opera nor more generally to prevailing views of the great master-
pieces of nineteenth-century European civilization. Aida, like the opera form
itself, is a hybrid, radically impure work that belongs equally to the history
of culture and the historical experience of overseas domination. It is a
composite work, built around disparities and discrepancies that have been
either ignored or unexplored, that can be recalled and mapped descriptively;
they are interesting in and of themselves, and they make more sense of Aida's
unevenness, its anomalies, its restrictions and silences, than analyses of the
kind that focus on Italy and European culture exclusively.
I shall put before the reader material that paradoxically cannot be over-
looked but systematically has been. This is mostly because the embarrass-
ment of Aida is finally that it is not so much about but o/imperial domination.
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The Empire at Work: Verdi's Aida
Similarities with Jane Austen’s work — equally improbable as art involved
with empire — will emerge. If one interprets Aida from that perspective,
aware that the opera was written for and first produced in an African country
with which Verdi had no connection, a number of new features will stand
out.
Verdi himself says something to this effect in a letter that inaugurates his
as yet almost completely latent connection with an Egyptian opera. Writing
to Camille du Locle, a close friend who had just returned from a voyage ert
Orient, Verdi remarks on February 19, 1868: “When we see each other, you
must describe all the events of your voyage, the wonders you have seen, and
the beauty and ugliness of a country which once had a greatness and a
civilization I had never been able to admire.” 86
On November 1, 1869, the inauguration of the Cairo Opera House was a
brilliant event during celebrations for the opening of the Suez Canal; Rigo-
letto was the opera performed. A few weeks before, Verdi had turned down
Khedive Ismail’s offer to write a hymn for the occasion, and in December
he wrote du Locle a long letter on the dangers of “patchwork” operas: “I
want art in any of its manifestations, not the arrangement ; the artifice, and the
system that you prefer,” he said, arguing that for his part he wanted “unified”
works, in which “the idea is ONE, and everything must converge to form
this ONE.” 87 Although these assertions were made in response to du Lode’s
suggestions that Verdi write an opera for Paris, they turn up enough times
in the course of his work on Aida to become an important theme. On January
y, 1871, he wrote Nicola de Giosa, “Today operas are written with so many
different dramatic and musical intentions that it is almost impossible to
interpret them; and it seems to me that no one can take offense if the author,
when one of his productions is given for the first time, sends a person who
has carefully studied the work under the direction of the author himself.” 88
To Ricordi he wrote on April 11, 1871, that he permitted “only one creator”
for his work, himself, “I don’t concede the right to ‘create’ to singers and
conductors because, as I said before, it is a principle that leads into the
abyss.” 89
Why, then, did Verdi finally accept Khedive Ismail’s offer to write a
special opera for Cairo? Money certainly was a reason: he was given 150,000
francs in gold. He was also flattered, since after all he was choice number
one, ahead of Wagner and Gounod. Just as important, I think, was the story
offered him by du Locle, who had received a sketch for a possible operatic
treatment from Auguste Mariette, a renowned French Egyptologist. On May
26, 1870, Verdi had indicated in a letter to du Locle that he had read “the
Egyptian outline,” that it was well done, and that “it offers a splendid
mise-eft-scene." 90 He had noted also that the work shows “a very expert hand
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
in it, one accustomed to writing and one who knows the theatre very well.”
By early June he began work on Aida, immediately expressing his impatience
to Ricordi at how slowly things were progressing, even as he requested the
services of one Antonio Ghislanzoni as librettist. “These things should be
done very fast,” he says at this point.
In the simple, intense, and above all authentically “Egyptian” scenarios by
Mariette, Verdi perceived a unitary intention, the imprint or trace of a
masterly and expert will that he hoped to match in music. At a time when
his career had been marked with disappointments, unfulfilled intendons,
unsatisfying collaborations with impresarios, ricket sellers, singers — the
Paris premiere of Don Carlos was a recent, sdll smarting instance — Verdi saw
a chance to create a work whose every detail he could supervise from
beginning sketch to opening night. In addition, he was to be supported in this
enterprise by royalty: indeed, du Locle suggested that the Viceroy not only
desperately wanted the piece for himself, but also had helped Mariette in
writing it Verdi could assume that a wealthy Oriental potentate had joined
with a genuinely brilliant and single-minded Western archeologist to give
him an occasion in which he could be a commanding and undistracted
artistic presence. The story’s alienating Egyptian provenance and setting
paradoxically seem to have stimulated his sense of technical mastery.
So far as I have been able to ascertain, Verdi had no feelings at all about
modern Egypt, in contrast with his fairly developed notions about Italy,
France, and Germany, even though during the two years he worked on the
opera he kept getting assurances that he was doing something for Egypt on
a national level, as it were, Draneht Bey (n6 Pavlos Pavlidis), the Cairo
Opera manager, told him this, and Mariette, who came to Paris to get
costumes and scenery ready in the summer of 1870 (and was subsequently
caught there during the Franco-Prussian War), frequently reminded him
that no expense was being spared to mount a truly spectacular show. Verdi
was intent on getting words and music right, making certain that Ghislan-
zoni found the perfect “theatrical word,” parola scenic a!*' overseeing per-
formance details with unflagging attention. In the immensely complicated
negotiations for casting the first Amneris, Verdi’s contribution to the im-
broglio earned him the title of “the world’s foremost Jesuit.” 92 Egypt’s
submissive or at least indifferent presence in his life allowed him to pur-
sue his artistic intentions with what appeared to be an uncompromising
intensity.
But I believe Verdi fatally confused this complex and in the end col-
laborative capacity to bring a distant operatic fable to life with the Romantic
ideal of an organically integrated, seamless work of art, informed only by the
aesthetic intention of a single creator. Thus an imperial notion of the artist
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The Empire at Work: Verdis Aida
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dovetailed conveniently with an imperial notion of a non-European world
whose claims on the European composer were either minimal or non-
existent. To Verdi the conjunction must have seemed to be eminently worth
nursing along. For years subject to the obtrusive vagaries of opera house
personnel, he could now rule his domain unchallenged; as he prepared the
opera for performance in Cairo and a couple of months later (February 1872)
for its Italian premiere at La Scala, he was told by Ricordi that “you will be
the Moltke of La Scala” (September 2, 1871). 93 So strong were the attractions
of this martially dominating role that at one point, in a letter to Ricordi,
Verdi explicitly connects his aesthetic aims with Wagner’s and, more sig-
nificantly, with Bayreuth (as yet only a theoretical proposal), over whose
performances Wagner intended himself to have virtually total dominion.
The seating arrangement of the orchestra is of much greater impor-
tance than is commonly believed — for the blending of the instruments,
for the sonority, and for the effect. These small improvements will
afterward open the way for other innovations, which will surely come
one day; among them taking the spectators’ boxes off the stage, bringing
the curtain to the foodights; another, making the orchestra invisible. This
is not my idea but Wagner’s. It’s excellent. It seems impossible that
today we tolerate the sight of shabby tails and white ties, for example,
mixed with Egyptian, Assyrian and Druidic costumes, etc., etc., and,
even more, almost in the middle of the floor, of seeing the tops of the
harps, the necks of the double basses and the baton of the conductor all
up in the air.’ 4
Verdi speaks here of a theatrical presentation removed from the customary
interferences of opera houses, removed and isolated in such a way as to
impress the audience with a novel blend of authority and verisimilitude. The
parallels are evident with what Stephen Bann, in The Clothing of Clio, has
called “the historical composition of place” in historical writers like Walter
Scott and Byron. 95 The difference is that Verdi could and indeed, for the first
time in European opera, did avail himself of Egyptology’s historical vision
and academic authority. This science was embodied at close hand for Verdi
in the person of Auguste Mariette, whose French nationality and training
were part of a crucial imperial genealogy. Verdi perhaps had no way of
knowing much in detail about Mariette, but he was strongly impressed by
Mariette’s initial scenario and recognized a qualified expert whose compe-
tence could represent ancient Egypt with a legitimate credibility.
The simple point to be made here is that Egyptology is Egyptology and
not Egypt. Mariette was made possible by two important predecessors, both
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French, both imperial, both reconstructive, and, if I can use a word that I
shall borrow from Northrop Frye, both presentadonal: the first is the archeo-
logical volumes of Napoleon’s Description del'Egypte; and the second is Cham-
pollion’s deciphering of hieroglyphics presented in 1822 in his Lettre a M.
Dacier and in 1824 in his Precis du systbne hieroglyphique. By “presentational”
and “reconstructive” I mean a number of characteristics that seemed tailor-
made for Verdi: Napoleon’s military expedition to Egypt was motivated by
a desire to capture Egypt, to threaten the British, to demonstrate French
power; but Napoleon and his scholarly experts were there also to put Egypt
before Europe, in a sense to stage its antiquity, its wealth of associations,
cultural importance, and unique aura /or a European audience. Yet this could
not be done without an aesthetic as well as a political intention. What
Napoleon and his teams found was an Egypt whose antique dimensions were
screened by the Muslim, Arab, and even Ottoman presence standing every-
where between the invading French army and ancient Egypt. How was one
to get to that other, older, and more prestigious part?
Here began the particularly French aspect of Egyptology, which
continued in the work of Champollion and Mariette. Egypt had to be
reconstructed in models or drawings, whose scale, projective grandeur (I say
“projective” because as you leaf through the Description you know that what
you are looking at are drawings, diagrams, paintings of dusty, decrepit, and
neglected pharaonic sites looking ideal and splendid as if there were no
modern Egyptians but only European spectators), and exotic distance were
truly unprecedented. The reproductions of the Description therefore are not
descriptions but ascriptions. First the temples and palaces were reproduced
in an orientation and perspective that staged the actuality of ancient Egypt
as reflected through the imperial eye; then — since all of them were empty
or lifeless — in the words of Ampere, they had to be made to speak, and
hence the efficacy of Champollion’s decipherment; then, finally, they could
be dislodged from their context and transported to Europe for use there.
This, as we shall see, was Mariette’s contribution.
This continuous process went on roughly from 1798 until the 1860s, and
it is French. Unlike England, which had India, and Germany, which, at a
remove, had the organized learning that went with Persia and India, France
had this rather imaginative and enterprising field in which, as Raymond
Schwab says in The Oriental Renaissance, scholars “from Rouge to Mariette at
the end of the line [started by Champollion’s work] . . . were . . . explorers
with isolated careers who learned everything on their own.” 96 The Napole-
onic savants were explorers who learned everything on their own, since
there was no body of organized, truly modem and scientific knowledge
about Egypt on which they could draw. As Martin Bernal has characterized
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The Empire at Work: Verdi’s Aida
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it, although the prestige of Egypt throughout the eighteenth century was
considerable, it was associated with esoteric and mystifying currents like
Masonry. 97 Champollion and Mariette were eccentrics and autodidacts, but
they were moved by scientific and rationalistic energies. The meaning of this
in the ideological terms of Egypt’s presentation in French archeology is that
Egypt could be described “as the first and essential oriental influence on the
West,” a claim that Schwab quite rightly regards as false, since it ignores
Orientalist work done by European scholars on other parts of the ancient
world. In any event, Schwab says:
Writing in the Revue des Deux-Mondes in June i8<58 [just at the point that
Draneht, Khedive Ismail, and Mariette began to conceive of what was
to become Aida] Ludovic Vitet hailed “the unparalleled discoveries” of
the orientalists over the preceding fifty years. He even spoke of “the
archeological revolution for which the Orient is the theatre,” but
calmly asserted that “the movement started with Champollion and
everything began because of him. He is the point of departure for all
these discoveries.” Vitet’s own progression following the one already
established in the public mind, he then passed on to the Assyrian
monuments and finally to a few words on the Vedas. Vitet did not
linger. Clearly, after Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt, the monuments
there and the scholarly missions to Egyptian sites had already spoken
to everyone. India never revived except on paper. 98
Auguste Mariette’s career is significant for Aida in many interesting ways.
Although there has been some dispute about his exact contribution to the
Aida libretto, his intervention has been vindicated definitively by jean Hum-
bert as the important inaugurating one for the opera 99 (Immediately behind
the libretto was his role as principal designer of antiquities at the Egyptian
pavilion in the Paris International Exhibition of 1867, one of the greatest and
earliest displays of imperial potency.)
Although archeology, grand opera, and the European universal exposi-
tions are obviously different worlds, someone like Mariette connects them
in suggestive ways. There is a perspicacious account of what might have
made possible Mariette’s passages between the three worlds:
The universal expositions of the nineteenth century were intended as
microcosms that would summarize the entire human experience — past
and present, with projections into the future. In their carefully ar-
ticulated order, they also signified the dominant relation of power.
Ordering and characterization ranked, rationalized, and objectified dif-
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ferent sociedes. The resulting hierarchies portrayed a world where
races, sexes, and nadons occupied fixed places assigned to them by the
exposiuon committees of host countries. The forms through which
non-Westem cultures were represented at the fairs were predicated
upon the social arrangements already established in the “host” culture,
France; thus it is important to describe the parameters for they set the
patterns of national representation and provided the channels of cul-
tural expression through which the knowledge produced by the exposi-
tions would be fashioned. 100
In the catalogue he wrote for the 1867 exhibition, Mariette rather strenu-
ously stressed the reconstructive aspects, leaving little doubt in anyone’s mind
that he, Mariette, had brought Egypt to Europe for the first time, as it were.
He could do so because of his spectacular archeological successes at some
thirty-five sites, including those at Giza, Sakkarah, Edfu, and Thebes where,
in Brian Fagan’s apt words, he “excavated with complete abandon.” 101 In
addition, Mariette was engaged regularly in both excavating and emptying
sites, so that as the European museums (especially the Louvre) grew in
Egyptian treasure, Mariette rather cynically displayed the actual tombs in
Egypt empty, keeping a bland composure in his explanations to “disap-
pointed Egyptian officials.” 102
In service to the Khedive, Mariette encountered Ferdinand de Lesseps,
the canal’s architect. We know that the two collaborated in various restora-
tive and curatorial schemes, and I am convinced that both men had a similar
vision — perhaps going back to earlier Saint-Simonian, Masonic, and theo-
sophic European ideas about Egypt — out of which they spun their quite
extraordinary schemes, whose effectiveness, it is important to note, was
increased by the alliance in each of them of personal will, a penchant for
theatricality, and scientific dispatch.
Mariette 's libretto for Aida led to his design for costumes and sets, and
this, in turn, back to the remarkably prophetic scenic designs of the Descrip-
tion. The most striking pages of the Description seem to beseech some very
grand actions or personages to fill them, and their emptiness and scale look
like opera sets waiting to be populated. Their implied European context is
a theater of power and knowledge, while their actual Egyptian setting in the
nineteenth century has simply dropped away.
The temple at Phylae as rendered in the Description (and not a supposed
original at Memphis) was almost certainly in Mariette’s mind as he designed
the first scene in Aida, and although it is unlikely that Verdi saw these very
prints, he did see reproduced versions of them that circulated widely in
Europe; having seen them made it easier for him to house the loud military
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music that occurs so frequendy in Aida's first two acts. It is also likely that
Mariette’s notions about costumes came from illustrations in the Description
which he adapted for the opera, though there are substandal differences. I
think that Mariette had in his own mind’s eye transmuted the pharaonic
originals into a rough modern equivalent, into what pre-historic Egyptians
would look like accoutered in styles prevalent in 1870: Europeanized faces,
moustaches, and beards are the giveaway.
The result was an Orientalized Egypt, which Verdi had arrived at in the
music quite on his own. Well-known examples occur mosdy in the second
act: the chant of the priestess and, a little later, the ritual dance. We know
that Verdi was most concerned with the accuracy of this scene, since it
required the most authentication and caused him to ask the most detailed
historical questions. A document sent by Ricordi to Verdi in the summer of
1870 contains material on ancient Egypt, of which the most detailed was
about consecrations, priestly rites, and other facts concerning ancient Egyp-
tian religion. Verdi used little of it, but the sources are indicative of a
generalized European awareness of the Orient as derived from Volney and
Creuzer, to which was added Champollion’s more recent archeological
work. All of this, however, concerns priests: no women are mentioned.
Verdi does two things to this material. He converts some of the priests
into priestesses, following the conventional European practice of making
Oriental women central to any exotic practice: the functional equivalents of
his priestesses are the dancing girls, slaves, concubines, and bathing harem
beauties prevalent in mid-nineteenth-century European art and, by the
1870s, entertainment. These displays of feminine eroticism a I’orientaie “ar-
ticulated power relations and revealed a desire to enhance supremacy
through representation.” 103 Some of this is easy to spot in the scene in Act
II set inside Amneris’s chamber, in which sensuality and cruelty are inev-
itably associated (for example, in the dance of Moorish slaves). The other
thing Verdi does is to convert the general Orientalist clich6 of life at
court into a more directly allusive barb against the male priesthood.
Ramfis the High Priest is, I think, informed both by Verdi’s Risorgimento
anti-clericalism and by his ideas about the despotic Oriental potentate, a man
who will exact vengeance out of sheer bloodthirst masked in legalism and
scriptural precedent
As for the modally exotic music, we know from his letters that Verdi
consulted the work of Francois-Joseph F6tis, a Belgian musicologist who
seems to have irritated and fascinated him in equal measure. F6tis was the
first European to attempt a study of non-European music as a separate part
of the general history of music, in his Resume philosophtque de I’bistoire de la
musique (1835). His unfinished Histoire getterale de la musique depuis les temps
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anciens a nos jours (1869 — 76) carried the project further, emphasizing the
unique particularity of exotic music and its integral identity. F6tis seems to
have known E. W. Lane’s work on nineteenth-century Egypt, as well as the
two volumes on Egyptian music in the Description.
Fetis’s value for Verdi was that he could read examples in his work of
“Oriental” music — the harmonic cliches, much used in carnival hoochy-
kooch, are based on a flattening of the hypertonic-— and instances of Oriental
instruments, which in some cases corresponded to representation in the
Description: harps, flutes, and the by now well-known ceremonial trumpet,
which Verdi went to somewhat comic effort to have built in Italy.
Lasdy, Verdi and Mariette collaborated imaginatively — and in my opin-
ion, most successfully — in creating the quite wonderful atmospherics of Act
III, the so-called Nile scene. Here too an idealized representation in the
Napoleonic Description was the probable model for Mariette’s image of the
scene, whereas Verdi heightened his conception of an antique Orient by
using less literal and more suggestive musical means. The result is a superb
tonal picture with a permeable outline that sustains the quiet scene-painting
of the act’s opening, and then opens out to the turbulent and conflicted
climax among Aida, her father, and Radames. Mariette’s sketch for the
setting of this magnificent scene is like a synthesis of bis Egypt: “The set
represents a garden of the palace. At the left, the oblique facade of a
pavilion— or tent. At the back of the stage flows the Nile. On the horizon the
mountains of the Libyan chain, vividly illuminated by the setting sun.
Statues, palms, tropical shrubs.” 104 No wonder that, like Verdi, he saw
himself as a creator: "Aida," he said in a letter to the patient and ever-
resourceful Draneht (July 19, 1871), “is in effect a product of my work. I am
the one who convinced the Viceroy to order its presentation; Aida in a word,
is a creation of my brain.” 105
Aida thus incorporates and fuses material about Egypt in a form that both
Verdi and Mariette could claim with justification to be of their making. Yet
I suggest that the work suffers — or is at least peculiar — because of the
selectivity of and emphases in what is included and, by implication, ex-
cluded. Verdi must have had opportunities to wonder what modern Egyp-
tians thought of his work, how individual listeners responded to his music,
what would become of the opera after the premiere. But little of this has
found its way into the record, except a few ill-tempered letters rebuking
European critics at the premiere; they gave him unwelcome publicity, he said
rather churlishly. In a letter to Filippi we already begin to get a sense of
Verdi’s distance from the opera, a Verfremdungseffekt ; I believe, already writ-
ten into Aida’s scene and libretto:
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The Empire at Work: Verdi's Aida
. . . You in Cairo? This is the most powerful publicity for Aida one could
imagine! It seems to me that in this way art is no longer an but a business,
a game of pleasure, a hunt, something to be chased after, something which
must be given if not success, at least notoriety at any cost! My reaction to
this is one of disgust and humiliation! I always remember with joy my
early days when, with almost no friends, without anyone to talk, about me,
without preparations, without influence of any kind, I went before the
public with my operas, ready to be blasted and quite happy if I could
succeed in stirring up some favorable impression. Now, what pomposity
for an opera!!!!Joumalists, artists, choristers, conductors, instrumentalists,
etc., etc. All of them must carry their stone to the edifice of publicity and
thus fashion a framework of little trifles that add nothing to the worth of
an opera; in fact they obscure the real value (if there is any). This is
deplorable, profoundly deplorable!!!!
I thank you for your courteous offers for Cairo, but I wrote to
Bottesini the day before yesterday everything concerning Aida. For this
opera I want only a good and above all, an intelligent vocal and instru-
mental performance and mise-en-sckne. As for the rest, & la grace de
Dieu; for so I began and so I wish to finish my career . . . 10t
The protestations here extend his attitudes about the opera’s single inten-
tion: Aida is a self-sufficient work of art, he seems to be saying, and let’s leave
it at that. But isn’t there something else going on hert too, some sense on
Verdi’s part of an opera written for a place he cannot relate to, with a plot
that ends in hopeless deadlock and literal entombment?
Verdi’s awareness of Aida's incongruities appears elsewhere. At one point
he speaks ironically of adding Palestrina to the harmony of Egyptian music,
and he seems also to have been conscious of the extent to which ancient
Egypt was not only a dead civilization but also a culture of death, whose
apparent ideology of conquest (as he adapted it from Herodotus and Ma-
riette) was related to an ideology of the afterlife. The rather somber, disen-
chanted, and vestigial attachment that Verdi had to the politics of the
Risorgimento as he worked on Aida appears in the work as military success
entailing personal failure or, as it can also be described, as political triumph
rendered in the ambivalent tones of human impasse, in short, of Realpolitii.
Verdi seems to have imagined the positive attributes of Radames’s patria as
ending up in the funereal tones of terra addio, and certainly the divided stage
in Act IV — a possible source is one of the plates in the Description — power-
fully impressed on his mind the discordia concert of Amneris’s unrequited
passion and Aida’s and Radames’s blissful deaths.
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Aida's airlessness and immobility are relieved only by ballets and trium-
phal parades, but even these displays are undermined in some way: Verdi
was too intelligent and single-minded to have left them untouched. The
dance of Ramfis’s triumphant consecration in Act 1 of course leads to
Radames’s demise in Acts III and IV, so there is little to be pleased about;
the dance of the Moorish slaves in Act II, scene i, is a dance of slaves, who
entertain Amneris as she malevolently plays with Aida, her slave rival. As
for the really famous pan of Act 11 , scene 2, here we have perhaps the core
of Aida's egregious appeal to audiences and directors alike, who take it as an
opportunity to do more or less anything so long as it is excessive and full
of display. This in fact may not be far from Verdi’s intention.
Take as three modern examples the following: One —
Aida in Cincinnati (March 1986). A press release from the Cincinnati
Opera announces that for its performance of Aida this season the fol-
lowing animals would take pan in the Triumph scene: 1 aardvark,
1 donkey, 1 elephant, 1 boa constrictor, 1 peacock, 1 toucan, 1 red-tail
hawk, 1 white tiger, 1 Siberian lynx, 1 cockatoo, and 1 cheetah — total
11; and that the body count for the production will total 261, being
made up of 8 principals, 117 chorus (40 regular chorus, 77 extras), 24
ballet, 101 supernumeraries (including 12 zoo keepers), and 11 animals. 107
This is Aida as a more or less untreated, panly comic outpouring of opu-
lence, a feat played and replayed with matchless vulgarity at the Baths of
Caracalla.
In contrast there is Wieland Wagner’s Act II, scene 2, a parade of Ethi-
opian prisoners carrying totems, masks, ritual objects as elements of an
ethnographic exhibition presented to the audience. This “was the transfer-
ence of the whole setting of the work from the Egypt of the Pharaohs to the
darker Africa of a prehistoric age”:
What I was trying to do, in regard to the scenery, was to give Aida the
colourful fragrance that is in it — deriving it not from an Egyptian
museum, but from the atmosphere inherent in the work itself. I wanted
to get away from false Egyptian artiness and false operatic monumen-
tality, from Hollywoodish historical painting, and return to archaic —
which is to say, in terms of Egyptology — to pre-dynastic times. 108
Wagner’s emphasis is on the difference between “our” world and “theirs,”
surely something that Verdi emphasized too, with his recognition that the
opera was first composed and designed for a place that was decidedly not
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The Empire at Work: Verdi’s Aida
Paris, Milan, or Vienna. And this recognition, interestingly enough, brings
us to Aida in Mexico 1952, where the leading singer, Maria Callas, outper-
forms the whole ensemble by ending up on a high E-flat, one octave above
the note written by Verdi.
In all three examples the effort is made to exploit this one opening that
Verdi allowed in the work, an aperture through which he seems to be letting
in an outside world otherwise banned from entry. His terms, though, are
astringent. He seems to be saying, Come in as exotica or as captives, stay
awhile, and then leave me to my business. And to shore up his territory, he
resorts musically to devices he hardly ever used before, all of them designed
to signal to the audience that a musical master, steeped in the learned
traditional techniques scorned by his bel canto contemporaries, was at work.
On February 20, 1871, he wrote a correspondent, Giuseppe Piroli, that “for
the young composer, then, I would want very long and rigorous exercises in
all branches of counterpoint ... No study of the modems!"' 09 This was in
keeping with the mortuary aspects of the opera he was writing (making the
mummies sing, he once said), which opens with a piece of strict canon
writing; Verdi’s contrapuntal and stretto techniques in Aida reach a height-
ened intensity and rigor of an order he rarely achieved. Along with the
martial music dotting Aida's score (some of which was later to become the
Khedival Egyptian national anthem), these learned passages strengthen the
opera’s monumentality and — more to the point — its wall-like structure.
In short, Aida quite precisely recalls the enabling circumstances of its
commission and composition, and, like an echo to an original sound, con-
forms to aspects of the contemporary context it works so hard to exclude.
As a highly specialized form of aesthetic memory, Aida embodies, as it was
intended to do, the authority of Europe’s version of Egypt at a moment in
its nineteenth-century history, a history for which Cairo in the years 1869 —
1871 was an extraordinarily suitable site. A full contrapuntal appreciation of
Aida reveals a structure of reference and attitude, a web of affiliations,
connections, decisions, and collaborations, which can be read as leaving a set
of ghostly notations in the opera’s visual and musical text
Consider the story: an Egyptian army defeats an Ethiopian force, but the
young Egyptian hero of the campaign is impugned as a traitor, sentenced to
death, and dies by asphyxiation. This episode of antiquarian inter-African
rivalry acquires considerable resonance when one reads it against the back-
ground of Anglo-Egyptian rivalry in East Africa from the 1840s till the 1860s.
The British regarded Egyptian objectives there under Khedive Ismail, who
was eager to expand southward, as a threat to their Red Sea hegemony, and
the safety of their route to India; nevertheless, prudently shifting policy, the
British encouraged Ismail’s moves in East Africa as a way of blocking French
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
and Italian ambitions in Somalia and Ethiopia. By the early 1870s the change
was completed, and by 1882 Britain occupied Egypt entirely. From the
F rench point of view, incorporated by Mariette, Aida dramatized the dangers
of a successful Egyptian policy of force in Ethiopia, especially since Ismail
himself — as Ottoman Viceroy — was interested in such ventures as a way of
achieving more independence from Istanbul. 110
There is more than that in Aida's simplicity and severity, especially since
so much about the opera, and the Opera House, which was built to house
Verdi’s work, concerns Ismail himself and his reign (1863-1879). A fair amount
of work has been done recently on the economic and political history of
European involvement in Egypt during the eighty years after Napoleon’s
expedition; much of this concurs with the position taken by Egyptian nation-
alist historians (Sabry, Rafi‘, Ghorbal) that the viceregal heirs who composed
Mohammad Ali’s dynasty, in a descending order of merit (with the excep-
tion of the intransigent Abbas), involved Egypt ever more deeply in what has
been called the “world economy” 1 " but more accurately was the loose
agglomeration of European financiers, merchant bankers, loan corporations,
and commercial adventures. This led ineluctably to the British occupation
of 1882, and, just as ineluctably, to the eventual reclamation of the Suez Canal
by Gamal Abdel Nasser in July 19 y6.
By the 1860s and 1870s the most striking feature of the Egyptian economy
was the boom in cotton sales that occurred when the American Civil War
closed off American supply to European mills; this only accelerated the
various distortions in the local economy (by the 1870s, according to Owen,
“the entire Delta had been converted into an export sector devoted to the
production, processing and export of two or three crops,” 112 ) which were
part of a much larger, more depressing situation. Egypt wasy opened to
schemes of every sort, some crazy, some beneficial (like the constructions of
railroads and roads), all costly, especially the canal. Development was fi-
nanced by issuing treasury bonds, printing money, increasing the budgetary
deficit; the growth of the public debt added a good deal to Egypt’s foreign
debt, the cost of servicing it, and the further penetration of the country by
foreign investors and their local agents. The general cost for foreign loans
seems to have been somewhere between 30 and 40 percent of their face
value. (David Landes’s Bankers and Pashas gives a detailed history of the
whole sordid yet amusing episode.) 113
In addition to its deepening economic weakness and dependency on
European finance, Egypt under Ismail underwent an important series of
antithetical developments. At the same time that the population grew natu-
rally, the size of foreign resident communities grew geometrically — to
90,000 by the early 1880s. The concentration of wealth in the viceregal family
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and its retainers in turn established a pattern of virtual feudal landholding
and urban privilege, which in turn hastened the development of a nationalist
consciousness of resistance. Public opinion seems to have opposed Ismail as
much because he was perceived to be handing Egypt over to foreigners as
because those foreigners for their part appeared to take Egypt’s quiescence
and weakness for granted. It was noted angrily, says the Egyptian historian
Sabry, that in Napoleon Ill’s speech at the canal’s opening, he mentioned
France and its canal but never Egypt. 114 On the other side of the spectrum,
Ismail was publicly attacked by pro-Ottoman journalists 111 for the folly of
his exorbitantly expensive European trips (these are chronicled in almost
sickening detail in Georges Douin, Histoire du rigne du Khedive Ismail, vol.
2), 116 his pretence of independence from the Porte, his overtaxing of his
subjects, his lavish invitations to European celebrities for the canal opening.
The more Khedive Ismail wished to appear independent, the more his
effrontery cost Egypt, the more the Ottomans resented his shows of indepen-
dence, and the more his European creditors resolved to keep a closer hand
on him. Ismail’s “ambition and imagination startled his listeners. In the hot,
straitened summer of 1864, he was thinking not only of canals and railroads,
but of Paris-on-the-Nile and of Ismail, Emperor of Africa. Cairo would have
its grands boulevards, Bourse, theatres, opera; Egypt would have a large army,
a powerful fleet. Why? asked the French Consul. He might also have asked,
How?” 117
“How” was to proceed with the renovation of Cairo, which required the
employment of many Europeans (among them Draneht) and the develop-
ment of a new class of city-dwellers whose tastes and requirements por-
tended the expansion of a local market geared to expensive imported goods.
As Owen says, “where foreign imports were important . . . was in catering
to the completely different consumption pattern of a large foreign popula-
tion and those among the local Egyptian landowners and officials who had
begun to live in European types of houses in the Europeanized section of
Cairo and Alexandria where almost everything of importance was purchased
from abroad — even building material.” 118 And, we might add, operas, com-
posers, singers, conductors, sets, and costumes. An important added benefit
to such projects was to convince foreign creditors with visible evidence that
their money was being put to good use; 1 19
Unlike Alexandria, however, Cairo was an Arab and Islamic city, even in
Ismail’s heyday. Aside from the romance of the Giza archeological sites,
Cairo’s past did not communicate easily or well with Europe; here were no
Hellenistic or Levantine associations, no gentle sea breezes, no bustling
Mediterranean port life. Cairo’s massive centrality to Africa, to Islam, to the
Arab and Ottoman worlds seemed like an intransigent barrier to European
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
investors, and the hope of making it more accessible and attractive to them
surely prompted Ismail to support the city’s modernization. This he did
essentially by dividing Cairo. One can do no better than to quote from the
best twentieth -century account of Cairo, Cairo: 1001 Years of the City Victorious,
by the American urban historian Janet Abu-Lughod:
Thus by the end of the nineteenth century Cairo consisted of two
distinct physical communities, divided one from the other by barriers
much broader than the little single street that marked their borders.
The discontinuity between Egypt’s past and future, which appeared as
a small crack in the early nineteenth century, had widened into a
gaping fissure by the end of that century. The city’s physical duality
was but a manifestation of the cultural cleavage.
To the east lay the native city, still essentially pre-industrial in
technology, social structure, and way of life; to the west lay the “colo-
nial” city with its steam-powered techniques, its faster pace and
wheeled traffic, and its European identification. To the east lay the
labyrinth street pattern of yet unpaved barat and durub, although by
then the gates had been dismantled and two new thoroughfares pierced
the shade; to the west were broad straight streets of macadam flanked
by wide walks and setbacks, militantly crossing one another at rigid
right angles or converging here and there in a roundpoint or maydan.
The quarters of the eastern city were still dependent upon itinerant
water peddlars, although residents in the western city had their water
delivered through a convenient network of conduits connected with
the steam pumping station near the river. Eastern quarters were
plunged into darkness at nightfall, while gaslights illuminated the thor-
oughfares to the west Neither parks nor street trees relieved the sand
and mud tones of the medieval city; yet the city to the west was
elaborately adorned with French formal gardens, strips of decorative
flower beds, or artificially shaped trees. One entered the old city by
caravan and traversed it on foot or animal-back; one entered the new
by railroad and proceeded via horse-drawn victoria. In short, on all
critical points the two cities, despite their physical contiguity, were
miles apart socially and centuries apart technologically . 120
The Opera House built by Ismail for Verdi sat right at the center of the
north-south axis, in the middle of a spacious square, facing the European
city, which stretched westward to the banks of the Nile. To the north were
the railroad station, Shepheards Hotel, and the Azbakiyah Gardens for
which, Abu-Lughod adds, “Ismail imported the French landscape architect
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The Empire at Work: Verdi's Aida
up
whose work he admired in the Bois de Boulogne and Champs de Mars and
commissioned him to redesign Azbakiyah as a Parc Monceau, complete with
the free form pool, grotto, bridges, and belvederes which instituted the
inevitable cliches of a nineteenth-century French garden.’’ 121 To the south
lay Abdin Palace, redesigned by Ismail as his principal residence in 1874,
Behind the Opera House lay the teeming quarters of Muski, Sayida Zeinab,
‘Ataba al-Khadra, held back by the Opera House’s imposing size and Euro-
pean authority.
Cairo was beginning to register the intellectual ferment of reform, some
but by no means all of it under the influence of the European penetration,
and this resulted, as Jacques Berque puts it, in a confusion of production. 122
This is beautifully evoked in perhaps the finest account of Ismailian Cairo,
the Khittat Tawfiktya of Ali Pasha Mobarak, the prodigiously energetic minis-
ter of public works and education, an engineer, nationalist, modernizer,
tireless historian, village son of a humble faqih, a man as fascinated by the
West as he was compelled by the traditions and religion of the Islamic East.
One has the impression that Cairo’s changes in this period forced Ali Pasha
to record the city’s life in recognition that the dynamics of Cairo now
required a new, modern attention to detail, detail which stimulated unprece-
dented discriminations and observations on the pan of the native Cairene.
Ali does not mention the Opera, although he speaks in detail of Ismail’s
lavish expenditure on his palaces, his gardens and zoos, and his displays for
visiting dignitaries. Later Egyptian writers will, like Ali, note the ferment of
this period, but will also note (e.g., Anwar Abdel-Malek) the Opera House
and Aida as antinomian symbols of the country’s anistic life and its imperial-
ist subjugation. In 1971 the wooden Opera House burned down; it was never
rebuilt there, and its site was occupied first by a parking lot, then by a
multistoried garage. In 1988 a new cultural center was built on the Gezira
Island with Japanese money; this center included an opera house.
Clearly we should conclude that Cairo could not long sustain Aida as an
opera written for an occasion and a place it seemed to outlive, even as it
triumphed on Western stages for many decades. Aida's Egyptian identity was
part of the city’s European facade, its simplicity and rigor inscribed on those
imaginary walls dividing the colonial city’s native from its imperial quarters.
Aida is an aesthetic of separation, and we cannot see in Aida the congruence
between it and Cairo that Keats saw in both the frieze on the Grecian urn
and what corresponded with it, the town and citadel “emptied of this folk,
this pious morn.” Aida, for most of Egypt, was an imperial article de luxe
purchased by credit for a tiny clientele whose entertainment was incidental
to their real purposes. Verdi thought of it as monument to his art; Ismail and
Mariette, for diverse purposes, lavished on it their surplus energy and
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* 3 °
restless will. Despite its shortcomings, Aida can be enjoyed and interpreted
as a kind of curatorial art, whose rigor and unbending frame recall, with
relentlessly mortuary logic, a precise historical moment and a specifically
dated aesthetic form, an imperial spectacle designed to alienate and impress
an almost exclusively European audience.
Of course, this is very far from Aida’s position in the cultural repertory
today. And certainly it is true that many great aesthetic objects of empire are
remembered and admired without the baggage of domination that they
carried through the process from gestation to production. Yet the empire
remains, in inflection and traces, to be read, seen, and heard. And by not
taking account of the imperialist structures of attitude and reference they
suggest, even in works like Aida, which seem unrelated to the struggle for
territory and control, we reduce those works to caricatures, elaborate ones
perhaps, but caricatures nonetheless.
One must remember, too, that when one belongs to the more powerful
side in the imperial and colonial encounter, it is quite possible to overlook,
forget, or ignore the unpleasant aspects of what went on “out there.” The
cultural machinery — of spectacles like Aida, of the genuinely interesting
books written by travellers, novelists, and scholars, of fascinating photo-
graphs and exotic paintings — has had an aesthetic as well as informative
effect on European audiences. Things stay remarkably unchanged when
such distancing and aestheticizing cultural practices are employed, for they
split and then anesthetize the metropolitan consciousness. In 1865 the British
Governor of Jamaica, E.J. Eyre, ordered a retaliatory massacre of Blacks for
the killing of a few whites; this revealed to many English people the injus-
tices and horrors of colonial life; the subsequent debate engaged famous
public personalities both for Eyre’s declaration of martial law and massacre
ofjamaican Blacks (Ruskin, Carlyle, Arnold) and against him (Mill, Huxley,
Lord Chiefjustice Cockburn). In time, however, the case was forgotten, and
other “administrative massacres” in the empire occurred. Yet, in the words
of one historian, “Great Britain managed to maintain the distinction be-
tween domestic liberty and imperial authority [which he describes as “re-
pression and terror”] abroad.” 125
Most modern readers of Matthew Arnold’s anguished poetry, or of his
celebrated theory in praise of culture, do not also know that Arnold con-
nected the “administrative massacre” ordered by Eyre with tough British
policies toward colonial Eire and strongly approved both; Culture and Anarchy
is set plumb in the middle of the Hyde Park Riots of 1867, and what Arnold
had to say about culture was specifically believed to be a deterrent to
rampant disorder — colonial, Irish, domestic. Jamaicans, Irishmen, and
women, and some historians bring up these massacres at “inappropriate”
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131
moments, but most Anglo-American readers of Arnold remain oblivious, see
them — if they look at them at all — as irrelevant to the more important
cultural theory that Arnold appears to be promoting for all the ages.
(As a small parenthesis, it is important to note that whatever its legal basis
against Saddam Hussein's brutal occupation of Kuwait, Operation Desert
Storm was also partly launched so as to lay the ghost of the “Vietnam
syndrome,” to assert that the United States could win a war, and win it
quickly. To sustain this motive, one had to forget that two million Viet-
namese were killed, and that sixteen years after the end of the war Southeast
Asia is still devastated. Therefore making America strong and enhancing
President Bush’s image as a leader took precedence over destroying a distant
society. And high technology and clever public relations were used to make
the war seem exciting, clean, and virtuous. As Iraq underwent paroxysms of
disintegration, counter-rebellion, and mass human suffering, American pop-
ular interest briefly cheered.)
For the European of the late nineteenth century, an interesting range of
options are offered, all premised upon the subordination and victimization
of the native. One is a self-forgetting delight in the use of power — the power
to observe, rule, hold, and profit from distant territories and people. From
these come voyages of discovery, lucrative trade, administration, annexa-
tion, learned expeditions and exhibitions, local spectacles, a new class of
colonial rulers and experts. Another is an ideological rationale for reducing,
then reconstituting the native as someone to be ruled and managed. There
are styles of rule, as Thomas Hodgkin characterizes them in his Nationalism
in Colonial Africa — French Cartesianism, British empiricism, Belgian Plato-
nism. 12 '* And one finds them inscribed within the humanistic enterprise itself:
the various colonial schools, colleges, and universities, the native elites
created and manipulated throughout Africa and Asia. Third is the idea of
Western salvation and redemption through its “civilizing mission.” Sup-
ported jointly by the experts in ideas (missionaries, teachers, advisers, schol-
ars) and in modern industry and communication, the imperial idea of
westernizing the backward achieved permanent status world-wide, but, as
Michael Adas and others have shown, it was always accompanied by domi-
nation . 125 Fourth is the security of a situation that permits the conqueror not
to look into the truth of the violence he does. The idea of culture itself, as
Arnold refined it, is designed to elevate practice to the level of theory, to
liberate ideological coercion against rebellious elements — at home and
abroad — from the mundane and historical to the abstract and general. “The
best that is thought and done” is considered an unassailable position, at
home and abroad. Fifth is the process by which, after the natives have been
displaced from their historical location on their land, their history is rewrit-
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
IJ2
ten as a function of the imperial one. This process uses narrative to dispel
contradictory memories and occlude violence — the exotic replaces the im-
press of power with the blandishments of curiosity — with the imperial
presence so dominating as to make impossible any effort to separate it from
historical necessity. All these together create an amalgam of the arts of
narrative and observation about the accumulated, dominated, and ruled
territories whose inhabitants seem destined never to escape, to remain
creatures of European will.
( v )
The Pleasures of Imperialism
jT/ \m is as unique in Rudyard Kipling’s life and career as it is in English
jf literature. It appeared in 1901, twelve years after Kipling had left India,
the place of his birth and the country with which his name will always be
associated. More interestingly, Kim was Kipling’s only successfully sustained
and mature piece of long fiction; although it can be read with enjoyment by
adolescents, it can also be read with respect and interest years after adoles-
cence, by the general reader and the critic alike. Kipling’s other fiction
consists either of short stories (or collections thereof, such as The Jungle
Booh), or deeply flawed longer works (like Captains Courageous, The Light
That Failed, and Stalky and Co., whose other interest is often overshadowed
by failures of coherence, vision, or judgement). Only Conrad, another master
stylist, can be considered along with Kipling, his slightly younger peer, to
have rendered the experience of empire as the main subject of his work with
such force; and even though the two artists are remarkably different in tone
and style, they brought to a basically insular and provincial British audience
the color, glamor, and romance of the British overseas enterprise, which was
well-known to specialized sectors of the home society. Of the two, it is
Kipling — less ironic, technically self-conscious, and equivocal than Con-
rad — who acquired a large audience early on. But both writers have re-
mained a puzzle for scholars of English literature, who find them eccentric,
often troubling, better treated with circumspection or even avoidance than
absorbed into the canon and domesticated along with peers like Dickens and
Hardy.
Conrad's major visions of imperialism concern Africa in Heart of Darkness
(1899), the South Seas in Lord Jim (1900), and South America in Nostromo
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The Pleasures of Imperialism
>33
(1904), but Kipling’s greatest work concentrates on India, a territory Conrad
never wrote about. And by the late nineteenth century India had become the
greatest, most durable, and most profitable of all British, perhaps even
European, colonial possessions. From the time the first British expedition
arrived there in 1608 until the last British Viceroy departed in 1947, India had
a massive influence on British life, in commerce and trade, industry and
politics, ideology and war, culture and the life of imagination. In English
literature and thought the list of great names who dealt with and wrote about
India is astonishingly impressive, for it includes William Jones, Edmund
Burke, William Makepeace Thackeray, Jeremy Bentham, James and John
Stuart Mill, Lord Macaulay, Harriet Martineau, and, of course Rudyard
Kipling, whose importance in the definition, the imagination, the formula-
tion of what India was to the British empire in its mature phase, just before
the whole edifice began to split and crack, is undeniable.
Kipling not only wrote about India, but was of it His father, Lockwood,
a refined scholar, teacher, and artist (the model for the kindly curator of the
Lahore Museum in Chapter One of Kim), was a teacher in British India.
Rudyard was born there in i 8 < 5 y, and during the first years of his life he spoke
Hindustani and lived a life very much like Kim’s, a Sahib in native clothes.
At the age of six he and his sister were sent to England to begin school;
appallingly traumatic, the experience of his first years in England (in the
care of a Mrs. Holloway at Southsea) furnished Kipling with an enduring
subject matter, the interaction between youth and unpleasant authority,
which he rendered with great complexity and ambivalence throughout his
life. Then Kipling went to one of the lesser public schools designed for
children of the colonial service, the United Services College at Westward
Ho! (the greatest of the schools was Haileybury, reserved for the upper
echelons of the colonial elite); he returned to India in 1882. His family was
still there, and so for seven years, as he tells of those events in his posthu-
mously published autobiography Something of Myself he worked as a journal-
ist in the Punjab, first on The Civil and Military Gazette, later on The Pioneer,
His first stories came out of that experience, and were published locally;
at that time he also began writing his poetry (what T. S. Eliot has called
“verse”), first collected in Departmental Ditties (1886). Kipling left India in 1889,
never again to reside there for any length of time, although for the rest of
his life his art fed on the memories of his early Indian years. Subsequently,
Kipling stayed for a while in the United States (and married an American
woman) and South Africa, but settled in England after 1900: Kim was written
at Bateman, the house he remained in till his death in 193 6. He quickly won
great fame and a large readership; in 1907 he was awarded the Nobel Prize.
His friends were rich and powerful; they included his cousin Stanley Bald-
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win, King George V, Thomas Hardy; many prominent writers including
Henryjames and Conrad spoke respectfully of him. After World War One
(in which his son John was killed) his vision darkened considerably. Al-
though he remained a Tory imperialist, his bleak visionary stories of En-
gland and the future, together with his eccentric animal and
quasi-theological stories, forecast also a change in his reputation. At his
death, he was accorded the honor reserved by Britain for its greatest writers:
he was buried in Westminster Abbey. He has remained an institution in
English letters, albeit one always slightly apart from the great central strand,
acknowledged but slighted, appreciated but never fully canonized.
Kipling’s admirers and acolytes have often spoken of his representations
of India as if the India he wrote about was a timeless, unchanging, and
“essential” locale, a place almost as much poetic as it is actual in geographi-
cal concreteness. This, I think, is a radical misreading of his works. If
Kipling’s India has essential and unchanging qualities, this was because he
deliberately saw India that way. After all, we do not assume that Kipling’s
late stories about England or his Boer War tales are about an essential
England or an essential South Africa; rather, we surmise correctly that
Kipling was responding tp and in effect imaginatively reformulating his
sense of these places at particular moments in their histories. The same is
true of Kipling’s India, which must be interpreted as a territory dominated
by Britain for three hundred years, and only then beginning to experience
the unrest that would culminate in decolonization and independence.
Two factors must be kept in mind as we interpret Kim. One is that,
whether we like it or not, its author is writing not just from the dominating
viewpoint of a white man in a colonial possession, but from the perspective
of a massive colonial system whose economy, functioning, and history had
acquired the status of a virtual fact of nature, Kipling assumes a basically
uncontested empire. On one side of the colonial divide was a white Christian
Europe whose various countries, principally Britain and France, but also
Holland, Belgium, Germany, Italy, Russia, Portugal, and- Spain, controlled
most of the earth’s surface. On the other side of the divide, there were an
immense variety of territories and races, all of them considered lesser,
inferior, dependent, subject. “White” colonies like Ireland and Australia too
were considered made up of inferior humans; a famous Daumier drawing,
for instance, explicitly connects Irish whites and Jamaican Blacks. Each of
these lesser subjects was classified and placed in a scheme of peoples guaran-
teed scientifically by scholars and scientists like Georges Cuvier, Charles
Darwin, and Robert Knox. The division between white and non-white, in
India and elsewhere, was absolute, and is alluded to throughout Kim as well
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as the rest of Kipling’s work; a Sahib is a Sahib, and no amount of friendship
or camaraderie can change the rudiments of racial difference. Kipling would
no more have questioned that difference, and the right of the white Euro-
pean to rule, than he would have argued with the Himalayas.
The second factor is that, no less than India itself, Kipling was a historical
being as well as a major artist. Kim was written at a specific moment in his
career, at a time when the relationship between the British and Indian
people was changing. Kim is central to the quasi-official age of empire and
in a way represents it. And even though Kipling resisted this reality, India
was already well on its way toward a dynamic of outright opposition to
British rule (the Indian National Congress was established in 1885), while
among the dominant caste of British colonial officials, military as' well as
civilian, important changes in attitude were occurring as a result of the 1857
Rebellion. The British and Indians were both evolving, and together. They
had a common interdependent history, in which opposition, animosity, and
sympathy either kept them apart or brought them together. A remarkable,
complex novel like Kim is a very illuminating part of that history, filled with
emphases, inflections, deliberate inclusions and exclusions as any great work
of art is, and made the more interesting because Kipling was not a neutral
figure in the Anglo-Indian situation but a prominent actor in it.
Even though India gained its independence (and was partitioned) in 1947,
the question of how to interpret Indian and British history in the period after
decolonization is still, like all such dense and highly conflicted encounters,
a matter of strenuous, if not always edifying, debate. There is the view, for
example, that imperialism permanently scarred and distorted Indian life, so
that even after decades of independence, the Indian economy, bled by
British needs and practices, continues to suffer. Conversely, there are British
intellectuals, political figures, and historians who believe that giving up the
empire — whose symbols were Suez, Aden, and India— was bad for Britain
and bad for “the natives,” who both have declined in all sorts of ways ever
since. 1 * 6
When we read it today, Kipling’s Kim can touch on many of these issues.
Does Kipling portray the Indians as inferior, or as somehow equal but
different? Obviously, an Indian reader will give an answer that focusses on
some factors more than others (for example, Kipling’s stereotypical views —
some would call them racialist — on the Oriental character), whereas English
and American readers will stress his affection for Indian life on the Grand
Trunk Road. How then do we read Kim as a late-nineteenth-century novel,
preceded by the works of Scott, Austen, Dickens, and Eliot? We must not
forget that the book is after all a novel in a line of novels, that there is more
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than one history in it to be remembered, that the imperial experience while
often regarded as exclusively political also entered into the cultural and
aesthetic life of the metropolitan West as well.
A brief summary of the novel’s plot may be rehearsed here. Kimball
O’Hara is the orphaned son of a sergeant in the Indian army; his mother is
also white. He has grown up as a child of the Lahore bazaars, carrying with
him an amulet and some papers attesting to his origins. He meets up with
a saintly Tibetan monk who is in search of the River where he supposes he
will be cleansed of his sins. Kim becomes his chela, or disciple, and the two
wander as adventurous mendicants through India, using some help from the
English curator of the Lahore Museum. In the meantime Kim becomes
involved in a British Secret Service plan to defeat a Russian-inspired con-
spiracy whose aim is to stir up insurrection in one of the northern Punjabi
provinces. Kim is used as a messenger between Mahbub Ali, an Afghan horse
dealer who works for the British, and Colonel Creighton, head of the
Service, a scholarly enthnographer. Later Kitn meets with the other mem-
bers of Creighton’s team in the Great Game, Lurgan Sahib and Hurree
Babu, also an ethnographer. By the time that Kim meets Creighton, it is
discovered that the boy is white (albeit Irish) and not a native, as he appears,
and he is sent to school at St. Xavier’s, where his education as a white boy
is to be completed. The guru manages to get the money for Kim’s tuition,
and during the holidays the old man and his young disciple resume their
peregrinations. Kim and the old man meet the Russian spies, from whom the
boy somehow steals incriminating papers, but not before the “foreigners”
strike the holy man. Although the plot has been found out and ended, both
the chela and his mentor are disconsolate and ill. They are healed by Kim’s
restorative powers and a renewed contact with the earth; the old man
understands that through Kim he has found the River. As the novel ends
Kim returns to the Great Game, and in effect enters the British colonial
service full-time.
Some features of Kim will strike every reader, regardless of politics and
history. It is an overwhelmingly male novel, with two wonderfully attractive
men at its center — a boy who grows into early manhood, and an old ascetic
priest Grouped around them are other men, some of them companions,
others colleagues and friends; these make up the novel’s major, defining
reality. Mahbub Ali, Lurgan Sahib, the great Babu, as well as the old Indian
soldier and his dashing horse-riding son, plus Colonel Creighton, Mr. Ben-
nett, and Father Victor, to name only a few of the numerous characters in
this teeming book; all of them speak the language that men speak among
themselves. The women in the novel are remarkably few by comparison, and
all of them are somehow debased or unsuitable for male attention — prosti-
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tutes, elderly widows, or importunate and lusty women like the widow of
Shamlegh; to be “eternally pestered by women,” says Kim, is to be hindered
in playing the Great Game, which is best played by men alone. We are in
a masculine world dominated by travel, trade, adventure, and intrigue, and
it is a celibate world, in which the common romance of fiction and the
enduring institution of marriage are circumvented, avoided, all but ignored.
At best, women help things along; they buy you a ticket, they cook, they tend
the ill, and . . . they molest men.
Kim himself, although he ages in the novel from thirteen until he is
sixteen or seventeen, remains a boy, with a boy’s passion for tricks, pranks,
clever wordplay, resourcefulness. Kipling seems to have retained a life-long
sympathy with himself as a boy beset by the adult world of domineering
schoolmasters and priests (Mr. Bennett in Kim is an exceptionally unattrac-
tive specimen) whose authority must be always reckoned with — until an-
other figure of authority, like Colonel Creighton, comes along and treats the
young person with understanding, but no less authoritarian, compassion.
The difference between St. Xavier’s School, which Kim attends for a time,
and service in the Great Game (British intelligence in India) does not lie in
the greater freedom of the latter; quite the contrary, the demands of the
Great Game are more exacting. The difference lies in the fact that the
former imposes a useless authority, whereas the exigencies of the Secret
Service demand from Kim an exciting and precise discipline, which he
willingly accepts. From Creighton’s point of view the Great Game is a sort
of political economy of control, in which, as he once tells Kim, the greatest
sin is ignorance, not to know. But for Kim the Great Game cannot be
perceived in all its complex patterns, although it can be fully enjoyed as a
sort of extended prank. The scenes where Kim banters, bargains, repartees
with his elders, friendly and hostile alike, are indications of Kipling’s seem-
ingly inexhaustible fund of boyish enjoyment in the sheer momentary plea-
sure of playing a game, any sort of game.
We should not be mistaken about these boyish pleasures. They do not
contradict the overall political purpose of British control over India and
Britain’s other overseas dominions; on the contrary, pleasure ; whose steady
presence in many forms of imperial-yolonial writing as well as figurative and
musical art is often left undiscussed, is an undeniable component of Kim. A
different example of this mixture of fun and single-minded political serious-
ness is to be found in Lord Baden-Powell’s conception of the Boy Scouts,
founded and launched in 1907-8. An almost exact contemporary of Kipling,
BP, as he was called, was greatly influenced by Kipling’s boys generally and
Mowgli in particular; BP’s ideas about “boyology” fed those images directly
into a grand scheme of imperial authority culminating in the great Boy
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Scout structure “fortifying the wall of empire,” which confirmed this inven-
tive conjunction of fun and service in row after row of bright-eyed, eager,
and resourceful little middle-class servants of empire . 127 Kim, after all, is
both Irish and of an inferior social caste; in Kipling’s eyes this enhances his
candidacy for service. BP and Kipling concur on two other important points:
that boys ultimately should conceive of life and empire as governed by
unbreakable Laws, and that service is more enjoyable when thought of
less like a story — linear, continuous, temporal — and more like a playing
field — many-dimensional, discontinuous, spatial. A recent book by the
historian J. A. Mangan sums it up nicely in its title: The Games Ethic and
Imperialism. 1 ™
So large is his perspective and so strangely sensitive is Kipling to the
range of human possibilities that he offsets this service ethic in Kim by giving
full rein to another of his emotional predilections, expressed by the strange
Tibetan lama and his relationship to the title character. Even though Kim
is to be drafted into intelligence work, the gifted boy has already been
charmed into becoming the lama’s chela at the very outset of the novel. This
almost idyllic relationship between two male companions has an interesting
genealogy. Like a number of American novels ( Huckleberry Finn , Mohy-Dick,
and The Deerslayer come quickly to mind), Kim celebrates the friendship of
two men in a difficult, sometimes hostile environment The American fron-
tier and colonial India are quite different, but both bestow a higher priority
on “male bonding” than on a domestic or amorous connection between the
sexes. Some critics have speculated on a hidden homosexual motif in these
relationships, but there is also the cultural motif long associated with pica-
resque tales in which a male adventurer (with wife or mother, if either exists,
safely at home) and his male companions are engaged in the pursuit of a
special dream — like Jason, Odysseus, or, even more compellingly, Don
Quixote with Sancho Panza. In the field or on the open road, two men can
travel together more easily, and they can come to each other’s rescue more
credibly than if a woman were along. So the long tradition of adventure
stories, from Odysseus and his crew to the Lone Ranger and Tonto, Holmes
and Watson, Batman and Robin, seems to hold.
Kim’s saintly guru additionally belongs to the overtly religious mode of
the pilgrimage or quest, common in all cultures. Kipling, we know, was an
admirer of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress. Kim is
a good deal more like Chaucer's than like Bunyan’s work. Kipling has the
Middle English poet’s eye for wayward detail, the odd character, the slice
of life, the amused sense of human foibles and joys. Unlike either Chaucer
or Bunyan, however, Kipling is less interested in religion for its own sake
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(although we never doubt the Abbot-Lama’s piety) than in local color,
scrupulous attention to exotic detail, and the all-enclosing realities of the
Great Game. It is the greatness of his achievement that quite without selling
the old man short or in any way diminishing the quaint sincerity of his
Search, Kipling nevertheless firmly places him within the protective orbit of
British rule in India. This is symbolized in Chapter 1, when the elderly
British museum curator gives the Abbot his spectacles, thus adding to the
man’s spiritual prestige and authority^ consolidating the justness and legiti-
macy of Britain’s benevolent sway.
This view, in my opinion, has been misunderstood and even denied by
many of Kipling’s readers. But we must not forget that the lama depends on
Kim for support and guidance, and that Kim’s achievement is neither to have
betrayed the lama’s values nor to have let up in his work as junior spy.
Throughout the novel Kipling is clear to show us that the lama, while a wise
and good man, needs Kim’s youth, his guidance, his wits; the lama even
explicitly acknowledges his absolute, religious need for Kim when, in
Benares, toward the end of Chapter 9, he tells the “Jataka,” the parable of
the young elephant (“The Lord Himself”) freeing the old elephant
(Ananda) imprisoned in a leg-iron. Clearly, the Abbot-Lama regards Kim as
his savior. Later, after the fateful confrontation with the Russian agents who
stir up insurrection against Britain, Kim helps (and is helped by) the lama,
who in one of the most moving scenes in all Kipling’s fiction says, “Child,
I have lived on thy strength as an old tree lives on the lime of an old wall.”
Yet Kim, reciprocally moved by love for his guru, never abandons his duty
in the Great Game, although he confesses to the old man that he needs him
“for some other things.”
Doubtless those “other things” are faith and unbending purpose. In one
of its main narrative strands, Kim keeps returning to the quest, the lama’s
search for redemption from the Wheel of Life, a complex diagram of which
he carries around in his pocket, and Kim’s search for a secure place in
colonial service. Kipling condescends to neither. He follows the lama wher-
ever he goes in his wish to be freed from “the delusions of the Body,” and
it is surely part of our engagement in the novel’s Oriental dimension, which
Kipling renders with little false exoticism, that we can believe in the novel-
ist’s respect for this pilgrim. Indeed, the lama commands attention and
esteem from nearly everyone. He honors his word to get the money for
Kim’s education; he meets Kim at the appointed times and places; he is
listened to with veneration and devotion. In an especially nice touch in
Chapter 14, Kipling has him tell “a fantastic piled narrative of bewitchment
and miracles” about marvelous events in his native Tibetan mountains,
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events that the novelist courteously forbears from repeating, as if to say that
this old saint has a life of his own that cannot be reproduced in sequential
English prose.
The lama’s search and Kim’s illness at the end of the novel are resolved
together. Readers of many of Kipling’s other tales will be familiar with what
the criticJ.M.S. Tompkins has rightly called “the theme of healing.” 12 ’ Here
too the narrative progresses inexorably toward a great crisis. In an unforget-
table scene Kim actacks the lama’s foreign and defiling assailants, the old
man’s talisman-like chart is rent, and the two forlorn pilgrims consequently
wander through the hills bereft of calm and health. Kim waits to be relieved
of his charge, the packet of papers he has stolen from the foreign spy; the
lama is unbearably aware of how much longer he must now wait before he
can achieve his spiritual goals. Into this heartrending situation, Kipling
introduces one of the novel’s two great fallen women (the other being the
old widow of Kulu), the woman of Shamlegh, abandoned long ago by her
“Kerlistian” Sahib, but strong, vital, and passionate nevertheless. (There is
a memory here of one of Kipling’s most affecting earlier short stories,
“Lispeth,” which treats the predicament of the native woman loved, but
never married, by a departed white man.) The merest hint of a sexual charge
between Kim and the lusty Shamlegh woman appears but is quickly dis-
sipated, as Kim and the lama head off once again.
What is the healing process through which Kim and the old lama must
pass before they can rest 2 This extremely complex and interesting question
can only be answered slowly and deliberately, so carefully does Kipling not
insist on the confining limits of a jingoistic imperial solution. Kipling will not
abandon Kim and the old monk with impunity to the specious satisfactions
of getting credit for a simple job well done. This caution is of course good
novelistic practice, but there are other imperatives — emotional, cultural,
aesthetic. Kim must be given a station in life commensurate with his stub-
bornly fought for identity. He has resisted Lurgan Sahib’s illusionistic temp-
tations and asserted the fact that he is Kim; he has maintained a Sahib’s status
even while remaining a graceful child of the bazaars and the rooftops; he has
played the game well, fought for Britain at some risk to his life and occasion-
ally with brilliance; he has fended off the woman of Shamlegh. Where should
he be placed? And where the lovable old cleric?
Readers of Victor Turner’s anthropological theories will recognize in
Kim’s displacements, disguises, and general (usually salutary) shiftiness the
essential characteristics of what Turner calls the liminal. Some societies,
Turner says, require a mediating character who can knit them together into
community, turn them into something more than a collection of administra-
tive or legal structures.
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Liminal [or threshold] entities, such as neophytes in initiation or pu-
berty rites, may be represented as possessing nothing. They may be
disguised as monsters, wear only a strip of clothing, or even go naked,
to demonstrate that they have no status, property, insignia. ... It is as
if they are being reduced or groomed down to a uniform condition to
be fashioned anew and endowed with additional powers to enable them
to cope with their new station in life . 150
That Kim himself is both an Irish outcast boy and later an essential player
in the British Secret Service Great Game suggests Kipling’s uncanny under-
standing of the workings and managing control of societies. According to
Turner, societies can be neither rigidly run by “structures” nor completely
overrun by marginal, prophetic, and alienated figures, hippies or millenari-
ans; there has to be alternation, so that the sway of one is enhanced or
tempered by the inspiration of the other. The liminal figure helps to maintain
societies, and it is this procedure that Kipling enacts in the climactic mo-
ment of the plot and the transformation of Kim’s character.
To work out these matters, Kipling engineers Kim’s illness and the lama’s
desolation. There is also the small practical device of having the irrepress-
ible Babu — Herbert Spencer’s improbable devotee, Kim’s native and secular
mentor in the Great Game — turn up to guarantee the success of Kim’s
exploits. The packet of incriminating papers that prove the Russo-French
machinations and the rascally wiles of an Indian prince is safely taken from
Kim. Then Kim begins to feel, in Othello’s words, the loss of his occupation:
All that while he felt, though he could not put it into words, that his
soul was out of gear with its surroundings — a cog-wheel unconnected
with any machinery, just like the idle cog-wheel of a cheap Beheea
sugar-crusher laid by in a corner. The breezes fanned over him, the
parrots shrieked at him, the noises of the populated house behind —
squabbles, orders, and reproofs — hit on dead ears . 131
In effect Kim has died to this world, has, like the epic hero or the liminal
personality, descended to a sort of underworld from which, if he is to
emerge, he will arise stronger and more in command than before.
The breach between Kim and “this world” must now be healed. The next
page may not be the summit of Kipling’s an, but it is close to that. The
passage is structured around a gradually dawning answer to Kim’s question:
“I am Kim. And what is Kim?” Here is what happens:
He did not want to cry — had never felt less like crying in his
life — but of a sudden easy, stupid tears trickled down his nose, and with
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an almost audible click he felt the wheels of his being lock up anew on
the world without. Things that rode meaningless on the eyeball an
instant before slid into proper proportion. Roads were meant to be
walked upon, houses to be lived in, cattle to be driven, fields to be tilled,
and men and women to be talked to. They were all real and true —
solidly planted upon the feet — perfectly comprehensible — clay of his
clay, neither more nor less. . . , 132
Slowly Kim begins to feel at one with himself and with the world. Kipling
goes on:
There stood an empty bullock-cart on a little knoll half a mile away,
with a young banian tree behind — a lookout, as it were, above some
new-ploughed levels; and his eyelids, bathed in soft air, grew heavy as
he neared it. The ground was good clean dust— not new herbage that,
living, is half-way to death already, but the hopeful dust that holds the
seed to all life. He felt it between his toes, patted it with his palms, and
joint by joint, sighing luxuriously, laid him down full length along in
the shadow of the wooden-pinned cart. And Mother Earth was as
faithful as the Sahiba [the Widow of Kulu, who has been tending Kim],
She breathed through him to restore the poise he had lost lying so long
on a cot cut off from her good currents. His head lay powerless upon
her breast, and his opened hands surrendered to her strength. The
many-rooted tree above him, and even the dead man-handled wood
beside, knew what he sought, as he himself did not know. Hour upon
hour he lay deeper than sleep. 153
As Kim sleeps, the lama and Mahbub discuss the boy’s fate; both men know
he is healed, and so what remains is the disposition of his life. Mahbub wants
him back in service; with that stupefying innocence of his, the lama suggests
to Mahbub that he should join both chela and guru as pilgrims on the way
of righteousness. The novel concludes with the lama revealing to Kim that
all is now well, for having seen
“all Hind, from Ceylon in the sea to the hills, and my own Painted
Rocks at Suchzen; I saw every camp and village, to the least, where we
have rested. 1 saw them at one time and in one place; for they are within
the Soul. By this 1 knew the Soul has passed beyond the illusion of
Time and Space and of Things. By this I knew 1 was free.” 134
Some of this is mumbo jumbo, of course, but it should not all be dismissed.
The lama’s encyclopedic vision of freedom strikingly resembles Colonel
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Creighton’s Indian Survey, in which every camp and village is duly noted.
The difference is that the positivistic inventory of places and peoples within
the scope of British dominion becomes, in the lama’s generous inclusiveness,
a redemptive and, for Kim’s sake, therapeutic vision. Everything is now held
together. At its center resides Kim, the boy whose errant spirit has regrasped
things “with an almost audible click." The mechanical metaphor of the soul
being put back on the rails, so to speak, somewhat violates the elevated and
edifying situation, but for an English writer situating a young white male
coming back to earth in a vast country like India, the figure is apt. After all,
the Indian railways were British-built and assured some greater hold than
before over the place.
Other writers before Kipling have written this type of regrasping-of-life
scene, most notably George Eliot in Middlemarch and Henry James in The
Portrait of a Lady, the former influencing the latter. In both cases the heroine
(Dorothea Brooke and Isabel Archer) is surprised, not to say shocked, by the
sudden revelation of a lover’s betrayal: Dorothea sees Will Ladislaw appar-
ently flirting with Rosamond Vincy, and Isabel intuits the dalliance between
her husband and Madame Merle. Both epiphanies are followed by long
nights of anguish, not unlike Kim’s illness. Then the women awake to a new
awareness of themselves and the world. The scenes in both novels are
remarkably similar, and Dorothea Brooke’s experience can serve here to
describe both. She looks out onto the world past “the narrow cell of her
calamity,” sees the
fields beyond, outside the entrance-gates. On the road there was a man
with a bundle on his back and a woman carrying a baby . . . she felt the
largeness of the world and the manifold wakings of men to labour and
endurance. She was a part of that involuntary palpitating life, and could
neither look out on it from her luxurious shelter as a mere spectator,
nor hide her eyes in selfish complaining. 135
Eliot and James intend such scenes not only as moral reawakenings, but
as moments in which the heroine gets past, indeed forgives, her tormentor
by seeing herself in the larger scheme of things. Part of Eliot’s strategy is to
have Dorothea’s earlier plans to help her friends be vindicated; the reawak-
ening scene thus confirms the impulse to be in, engage with, the world.
Much the same movement occurs in Kim, except that the world is defined
as liable to a soul’s locking up on it. The passage from Kim I quoted earlier
has a kind of moral triumphalism carried in its accentuated inflections of
purpose, will, voluntarism: things slide into proper proportion, roads are
meant to be walked on, things are perfectly comprehensible, solidly planted
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on the feet, and so on. Above the passage are “the wheels” of Kim’s being
as they “lock up anew on the world without.” And this series of motions is
subsequently reinforced and consolidated by Mother Earth’s blessing upon
Kim as he reclines next to the cart: “she breathed through him to restore
what had been lost.” Kipling renders a powerful, almost instinctual desire
to restore the child to its mother in a pre-conscious, undefiled, asexual
relationship.
But whereas Dorothea and Isabel are described as inevitably being part of
an “involuntary, palpitating life,” Kim is portrayed as retaking voluntary
hold of his life. The difference is, I think, capital. Kim’s newly sharpened
apprehension of mastery, of “locking up,” of solidity, of moving from limi-
nality to domination is to a very great . extent a function of being a Sahib in
colonial India: what Kipling has Kim go through is a ceremony of reappro-
priation, Britain (through a loyal Irish subject) taking hold once again of
India. Nature, the involuntary rhythms of restored health, comes to Kim
after the first, largely political-historical gesture is signalled by Kipling on his
behalf. In contrast, for the European or American heroines in Europe, the
world is there to be discovered anew; it requires no one in particular to
direct it or exert sovereignty over it. This is not the case in British India,
which would pass into chaos or insurrection unless roads were walked upon
properly, houses lived in the right way, men and women talked to in the
correct tones.
In one of the finest critical accounts of Kim, Mark Kinkead-Weekes
suggests that Kim is unique in Kipling’s oeuvre because what was clearly
meant as a resolution for the novel does not really work. Instead, Kinkead-
Weekes says, the artistic triumph transcends even the intentions of Kipling
the author:
[The novel] is the product of a peculiar tension between different ways
of seeing: the affectionate fascination with the kaleidoscope of external
reality for its own sake; the negative capability getting under the skin
of attitudes different from one another and one’s own; and finally, a
product of this last, but at its most intense and creative, the triumphant
achievement of an anti-self so powerful that it became a touchstone for
everything else — the creation of the Lama. This involved imagining a
point of view and a personality almost at the furthest point of view from
Kipling himself; yet it is explored so lovingly that it could not but act
as a catalyst towards some deeper synthesis. Out of this particular
challenge — preventing self-obsession, probing deeper than a merely
objective view of reality outside himself, enabling him now to see, think
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H. 5
and feel beyond himself — came the new vision of Kim, more inclusive,
complex, humanised, and mature than that of any other work . 156
However much we may agree with some of the insights in this rather
subtle reading, it is, in my opinion, rather too ahistorical. Yes, the lama is a
kind of anti-self, and, yes, Kipling can get into the skin of others with some
sympathy. But no, Kipling never forgets that Kim is an irrefragable part of
British India: the Great Game does go on, with Kim a part of it, no matter
how many parables the lama fashions. We are naturally entitled to read Kim
as a novel belonging to the world’s greatest literature, free to some degree
from its encumbering historical and political circumstances. Yet by the same
token, we must not unilaterally abrogate the connections in it, and carefully
observed by Kipling, to its contemporary actuality. Certainly Kim, Creigh-
ton, Mahbub, the Babu, and even the lama see India as Kipling saw it, as a
part of the empire. And certainly Kipling minutely preserves the traces of
this vision when he has Kim — a humble Irish boy, lower on the hierarchical
scale than full-blooded Englishmen — reassert his British priorities well
before the lama comes along to bless them.
Readers of Kipling’s best work have regularly tried to save him from
himself. Frequently this has had the effect of confirming Edmund Wilson’s
celebrated judgement about Kim:
Now what the reader tends to expect is that Kim will come eventually
to realize that he is delivering into bondage to the British invaders
those whom he has always considered his own people and that a
struggle between allegiances will result. Kipling has established for the
reader — and established with considerable dramatic effect — the con-
trast between the East, with its mysticism and sensuality, its extremes
of saintliness and roguery, and the English, with their superior organi-
zation, their confidence in modern method, their instinct to brush away
like cobwebs the native myths and beliefs. We have been shown two
entirely different worlds existing side by side, with neither really un-
derstanding the other, and we have watched the oscillation of Kim, as
he passes to and fro between them. But the parallel lines never meet;
the alternating attractions felt by Kim never give rise to a genuine
struggle. . . . The fiction of Kipling, then, does not dramatise any
fundamental conflict because Kipling would never face one . 137
There is an alternative to these two views, I believe, that is more accurate
about and sensitive to the actualities oflate-nineteenth-century British India
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
as Kipling, and others, saw them. The conflict between Kim’s colonial
service and loyalty to his Indian companions is unresolved not because
Kipling could not face it, but because for Kipling there was no conflict; one
purpose of the novel is in fact to show the absence of conflict once Kim is
cured of his doubts, the lama of his longing for the River, and India of a few
upstarts and foreign agents. That there might have been a conflict had Kipling
considered India as unhappily subservient to imperialism, we can have no
doubt, but he did not; for him it was India’s best destiny to be ruled by
England. By an equal and opposite reductiveness, if one reads Kipling not
simply as an “imperialist minstrel” (which he was not) but as someone who
read Frantz Fanon, met Gandhi, absorbed their lessons, and remained stub-
bornly unconvinced by them, one seriously distorts his context, which he
refines, elaborates, and illuminates. It is crucial to remember that there were
no appreciable deterrents to the imperialist world-view Kipling held, any
more than there were alternatives to imperialism for Conrad, however much
he recognized its evils. Kipling was therefore untroubled by the notion of an
independent India, although it is true to say that his fiction represents the
empire and its conscious legitimizations, which in fiction (as opposed to
discursive prose) incur ironies and problems of the kind encountered in
Austen or Verdi and, we shall soon see, in Camus. My point in this con-
trapuntal reading is to emphasize and highlight the disjunctions, not to
overlook or play them down.
Consider two episodes in Kim. Shortly after the lama and his chela leave
Umballa, they meet the elderly, withered former soldier “who had served
the Government in the days of the Mutiny.” To a contemporary reader “the
Mutiny” meant the single most important, well-known, and violent episode
of the nineteenth-century Anglo-Indian relationship: the Great Mutiny of
18/7, which began in Meerut on May 10 and led to the capture of Delhi. An
enormous number of books (e.g., Christopher Hibbert’s The Great Mutiny),
British and Indian, cover the “Mutiny” (referred to as a “Rebellion” by
Indian writers). What caused the “Mutiny” — here I shall use the ideologi-
cally British designation — was the suspicion of Hindu and Muslim soldiers
in the Indian army that their bullets were greased with cow’s fat (unclean
to Hindus) and pig’s fat (unclean to Muslims). In fact the causes of the
Mutiny were constitutive to British imperialism itself, to an army largely
staffed by natives and officered by Sahibs, to the anomalies of rule by the East
India Company. In addition, there was a great deal of underlying resentment
about white Christian rule in a country of many other races and cultures, all
of whom most probably regarded their subservience to the British as degrad-
ing. It was lost on none of the mutineers that numerically they vastly
outnumbered their superior officers.
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In both Indian and British history, the Mutiny was a clear demarcation.
Without going into the complex structure of actions, motives, events, and
moralities debated endlessly during and since, we can say that to the British,
who brutally and severely put the Mutiny down, all their actions were
retaliatory; the mutineers murdered Europeans; they said, and such actions
proved, as if proof were necessary, that Indians deserved subjugation by the
higher civilization of European Britain; after 18/7 the East India Company
was replaced by the much more formal Government of India. For the
Indians, the Mutiny was a nationalist uprising against British rule, which
uncompromisingly reasserted itself despite abuses, exploitation, and seem-
ingly unheeded native complaint. When in 192/ Edward Thompson pub-
lished his powerful little tract The Other Side of the Medal — an impassioned
statement against British rule and for Indian independence — he singled out
the Mutiny as the great symbolic event by which the two sides, Indian and
British, achieved their full and conscious opposition to each other. He
dramatically showed that Indian and British history diverged most emphati-
cally on representations ofit. The Mutiny, in short, reinforced the difference
between colonizer and colonized.
In such a situation of nationalist and self-justifying inflammation, to be an
Indian would have meant to feel natural solidarity with the victims of British
reprisal. To be British meant to feel repugnance and injury — to say nothing
of righteous vindication — given the terrible displays of cruelty by “natives,”
who fulfilled the roles of savages cast for them. For an Indian, not to have
had those feelings would have been to belong to a very small minority. It is
therefore highly significant that Kipling’s choice of an Indian to speak about
the Mutiny is a loyalist soldier who views his countrymen’s revolt as an act
of madness. Not surprisingly, this man is respected by British “Deputy
Commissioners” who, Kipling tells us, “turned aside from the main road to
visit him.” What Kipling eliminates is the likelihood that his compatriots
regard him as (at very least) a traitor to his people. And when, a few pages
later, the old veteran tells the lama and Kim about the Mutiny, his version
of the events is highly charged with the British rationale for what happened:
A madness ate into all the Army, and they turned against their officers.
That was the first evil, but not past remedy if they had then held their
hands. But they chose to kill the Sahib’s wives and children. Then came
the Sahibs from over the sea and called them to most strict account 138
To reduce Indian resentment, Indian resistance (as it might have been
called) to British insensitivity to “madness,” to represent Indian actions as
mainly the congenital choice of killing British women and children — these
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
are not merely innocent reductions of the nationalist Indian case but tenden-
tious ones. And when Kipling has the old soldier describe the British
counter-revolt — with its horrendous reprisals by white men bent on “moral”
action — as “calling” the Indian mutineers “to strict account,” we have left
the world of history and entered the world of imperialist polemic, in which
the native is naturally a delinquent, the white man a stern but moral parent
and judge. Thus Kipling gives us the extreme British view on the Mutiny,
and puts it in the mouth of an Indian, whose more likely nationalist and
aggrieved counterpart is never seen in the novel. (Similarly Mahbub Ali,
Creighton’s faithful adjutant, belongs to the Pathan people, historically in a
state of unpacified insurrection against the British throughout the nineteenth
century, yet here represented as happy with British rule, even a collaborator
with it) So far is Kipling from showing rwo worlds in conflict that he has
studiously given us only one, and eliminated any chance of conflict appear-
ing altogether.
The second example confirms the first. Once again it is a small, significant
moment Kim, the lama, and the Widow of Kulu are en route to Saharunpore
in Chapter 4. Kim has just been exuberantly described as being “in the
middle of it, more awake and more excited than anyone,” the “it” of Kip-
ling’s description standing for “the world in real truth; this was life as he
would have it — bustling and shouting, the buckling of belts, the beating of
bullocks and creaking of wheels, lighting of fires and cooking of food, and
new sights at every turn of the approving eye.” 139 We have already seen a
good deal of this side of India, with its color, excitement, and interest
exposed in all their variety for the English reader’s benefit Somehow,
though, Kipling needs to show some authority over India, perhaps because
only a few pages earlier he senses in the old soldier’s minatory account of
the Mutiny the need to forestall any further “madness.” After all India itself
is responsible for both the local vitality enjoyed by Kim and the threat to
Britain’s empire. A District Superintendent of Police trots by, and his ap-
pearance occasions this reflection from the Old Widow:
“These be the sort to oversee justice. They know the land and the
customs of the land. The others, all new from Europe, suckled by white
women and learning our tongue from books, are worse than the pesti-
lence. They do harm to Kings.” 140
Doubtless some Indians believed that English police officials knew the
country better than the natives, and that such officials — rather than Indian
rulers — should hold the reins of power. But note that in Kim no one chal-
lenges British rule, and no one articulates any of the local Indian challenges
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H9
that must then have been greatly in evidence — even for someone as obdu-
rate as Kipling. Instead we have one character explicitly saying that a
colonial police official ought to rule India and adding that she prefers the
older style of official who (like Kipling and his family) had lived among the
natives and was therefore better than the newer, academically trained
bureaucrats. This is a version of the argument of the so-called Orientalists
in India, who believed that Indians should be ruled according to Oriental-
Indian modes by India “hands,” but in the process Kipling dismisses as
academic all the philosophical or ideological approaches contending with
Orientalism. Among those discredited styles of rule were Evangelicalism
(the missionaries and reformers, parodied in Mr. Bennett), Utilitarianism
and Spencerianism (parodied in the Babu), and of course the unnamed
academics lampooned as “worse than the pestilence.” It is interesting that,
phrased the way it is, the widow’s approval is wide enough to include police
officers like the Superintendent, as well as a flexible educator like Father
Victor, and the quietly authoritative figure of Colonel Creighton.
Having the widow express what is in effect a sort of uncontested norma-
tive judgement about India and its rulers is Kipling’s way of demonstrating
that natives accept colonial rule so long as it is the right kind. Historically
this has always been how European imperialism made itself palatable to
itself, for what could be better for its self-image than native subjects who
express assent to the outsider’s knowledge and power, implicitly accepting
European judgement on the undeveloped, backward, or degenerate nature
of their own society? If one reads Kim as a boy’s adventure or as a rich and
lovingly detailed panorama of Indian life, one is not reading the novel that
Kipling in fact wrote, so carefully inscribed is it with these considered views,
suppressions, and elisions. As Francis Hutchins puts it in The Illusion of
Permanence: British Imperialism in India, by the late nineteenth century,
An India of the imagination was created which contained no elements
of either social change or political menace. Orientalization was the
result of this effort to conceive of Indian society as devoid of elements
hostile to the perpetualization of British rule, for it was on the basis of
this presumptive India that Orientalizers sought to build a permanent
rule .' 41
Kim is a major contribution to this Orientalized India of the imagination, as
it is also to what historians have come to call “the invention of tradition.”
There is still more to be noted. Dotting Kim’s fabric is a scattering of
editorial asides on the immutable nature of the Oriental world as distin-
guished from the white world, no less immutable. Thus, for example, “Kim
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' 5 °
would lie like an Oriental"; or, a bit later, “all hours of the twenty-four are
alike to Orientals”; or, when Kim pays for train tickets with the lama’s
money he keeps one anna per rupee for himself, which, Kipling says, is “the
immemorial commission of, Asia”; later still Kipling refers to “the huckster
instinct of the East”; at a train platform, Mahbub’s retainers “being natives”
have not unloaded the trucks which they should have; Kim’s ability to sleep
as the trains roar is an instance of “the Oriental’s indifference to mere noise";
as the camp breaks up, Kipling says that it is done “swiftly — as Orientals
understand speed — with long explanations, with abuse and windy talk,
carelessly, amid a hundred checks for little things forgotten”; Sikhs are
characterized as having a special “love of money”; Hurree Babu equates
being a Bengali with being fearful; when he hides the packet taken from the
foreign agents, the Babu “stows the entire trove about his body, as only
Orientals can.”
None of this is unique to Kipling. The most cursory survey of late-
nineteenth-century Western culture reveals an immense reservoir of popu-
lar wisdom of this sort, a good deal of which, alas, is still very much alive
today. Furthermore, as John M. MacKenzie has shown in his valuable book
Propaganda and Empire, manipulative devices from cigarette cards, postcards,
sheet music, almanacs, and manuals to music-hall entertainments, toy sol-
diers, brass band concerts, and board games extolled the empire and stressed
its necessity to England’s strategic, moral, and economic well-being, at the
same time characterizing the dark or inferior races as unregenerate, in need
of suppression, severe rule, indefinite subjugation. The cult of the military
personality was prominent, usually because such personalities had managed
to bash a few dark heads. Different rationales for holding overseas territories
were given; sometimes it was profit, other times strategy or competition with
other imperial powers (as in Kim: in The Strange Ride ofRudyard Kipling Angus
Wilson mentions that as early as age sixteen Kipling proposed at a school
debate the motion that “the advance of Russia in Central Asia is hostile to
British Power”). 1 " 2 The one thing that remains constant is the subordination
of the non-white.
Kim is a work of great aesthetic merit; it cannot be dismissed simply as the
racist imagining of one disturbed and ultra-reactionary imperialist. George
Orwell was certainly right to comment on Kipling’s unique power to have
added phrases and concepts to the language — East is East, and West is West;
the White Man’s Burden; somewhere East of Suez — and right also to say
that Kipling’s concerns are both vulgar and permanent, of urgent interest. 143 '
One reason for Kipling’s power is that he was an artist of enormous gifts;
what he did in his art was to elaborate ideas that would have had far less
permanence, for all their vulgarity, without the art. But he was also sup-
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ported by (and therefore could use) the authorized monuments of nine-
teenth-century European culture, and the inferiority of non-white races, the
necessity that they be ruled by a superior race, and their absolute unchang-
ing essence was a more or less unquestioned axiom of modern life.
True, there were debates about how the colonies were to be ruled, or
whether some of them should be given up. Yet no one with any power to
influence public discussion or policy demurred as to the basic superiority of
the white European male, who should always retain the upper hand. State-
ments like “The Hindu is inherently untruthful and lacks moral courage”
were expressions of wisdom from which very few, least of all the governors
of Bengal, dissented; similarly, when a historian of India like Sir H. M. Elliot
planned his work, central to it was the notion of Indian barbarity. Climate
and geography dictated certain character traits in the Indian; Orientals,
according to Lord Cromer, one of their most redoubtable rulers, could not
learn to walk on sidewalks, could not tell the truth, could not use logic; the
Malaysian native was essentially lazy, just as the north European was essen-
tially energetic and resourceful. V. G. Kieman’s book The Lords of Human
Kind, referred to earlier, gives a remarkable picture of how widespread these
views were. As I suggested earlier, disciplines like colonial economics,
anthropology, history, and sociology were built out of these dicta, with the
result that almost to a man and woman the Europeans who dealt with
colonies like India became insulated from the facts of change and national-
ism. A whole experience — described in meticulous detail in Michael Ed-
wardes’s The Sahibs and the Lotus — with its own integral history, cuisine,
dialect, values, and tropes more or less detached itself from the teeming,
contradictory realities of India and perpetuated itself heedlessly. Even Karl
Marx succumbed to thoughts of the changeless Asiatic village, or agricul-
ture, or despotism.
A young Englishman sent to India to be a part of the “covenanted” civil
service would belong to a class whose national dominance over each and
every Indian, no matter how aristocratic and rich, was absolute. He would
have heard the same stories, read the same books, learned the same lessons,
joined the same clubs as all the other young colonial officials. Yet, Michael
Edwardes says, “few really bothered to learn the language of the people they
ruled with any fluency, and they were heavily dependent on their native
clerks, who had taken the trouble to leam the language of their conquerors,
and were, in many cases, not at all unwilling to use their masters’ ignorance
to their own advantage .” 144 Ronny Heaslop in Forster’s A Passage to India is
an effective portrait of such an official.
All of this is relevant to Kim, whose main figure of worldly authority is
Colonel Creighton. This ethnographer-scholar-soldier is no mere creature
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
of invention, but almost certainly a figure drawn from Kipling’s experiences
in the Punjab, and he is most interestingly interpreted both as derived from
earlier figures of authority in colonial India and as an original figure perfect
for Kipling’s new purposes. In the first place, although Creighton is seen
infrequently and his character is not so fully drawn as Mahbub Ali’s or the
Babu’s, he is nevertheless present as a point of reference for the action, a
discreet director of events, a man whose power is worthy of respect. Yet he
is no crude martinet. He takes over Kim’s life by persuasion, not by imposi-
tion of his rank. He can be flexible when it seems reasonable — who could
have wished for a better boss than Creighton during Kim’s footloose holi-
days? — and stern when events require it.
In the second place, it is especially interesting that he is a colonial official
and scholar. This union of power and knowledge is contemporary with
Doyle’s invention of Sherlock Holmes (whose faithful scribe, Dr. Watson, is
a veteran of the Northwest Frontier), also a man whose approach to life
includes a healthy respect for, and protection of, the law allied with a
superior, specialized intellect inclining to science. In both instances, Kipling
and Doyle represent for their readers men whose unorthodox style of
operation is rationalized by new fields of experience turned into quasi-
academic specialties. Colonial rule and crime detection almost gain the
respectability and order of the classics or chemistry. When Mahbub Ali turns
Kim in for his education, Creighton, overhearing their conversation, thinks
“that the boy mustn’t be wasted if he is as advertised.” He sees the world
from a totally systematic viewpoint. Everything about India interests
Creighton, because everything in it is significant for his rule. The inter-
change between ethnography and colonial work in Creighton is fluent; he
can study the talented boy both as a future spy and as an anthropological
curiosity. Thus when Father Victor wonders whether it might not be too
much for Creighton to attend to a bureaucratic detail concerning Kim’s
education, the colonel dismisses the scruple. “The transformation of a regi-
mental badge like your Red Bull into a son of fetish that the boy follows is
very interesting.”
Creighton as anthropologist is important for other reasons. Of all the
modern social sciences, anthropology is the one historically most closely
tied to colonialism, since it was often the case that anthropologists and
ethnologists advised colonial rulers on the manners and mores of the native
people. (Claude Levi-Strauss’s allusion to anthropology as “the handmaiden
of colonialism” recognizes this; the excellent collection of essays edited by
T alal Asad, Anthropology and the Colonial Encounter, 1973, develops the connec-
tions still further; and in Robert Stone’s novel on the United States in Latin
American affairs, A Flag for Sunrise, 1981, the central character is Holliwell, an
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>53
anthropologist with ambiguous ties to the CIA.) Kipling was one of the first
novelists to portray this logical alliance between Western science and politi-
cal power at work in the colonies. 145 And Kipling always takes Creighton
seriously, which is one of the reasons the Babu is there. The native an-
thropologist, clearly a bright man whose reiterated ambitions to belong to
the Royal Society are not unfounded, is almost always funny, or gauche, or
somehow caricatural, not because he is incompetent or inept — on the con-
trary— but because he is not white; that is, he can never be a Creighton.
Kipling is very careful about this. Just as he could not imagine an India in
historical flux out o/Brirish control, he could not imagine Indians who could
be effective and serious in what he and others of the time considered
exclusively Western pursuits. Lovable and admirable as he may be, there
remains in the Babu the grimacing stereotype of the ontologically funny
native, hopelessly trying to be like “us.”
I said that the figure of Creighton is the culmination of a change taking
place over generations in the personification of British power in India.
Behind Creighton are late-eighteenth-century adventurers and pioneers
like Warren Hastings and Robert Clive, whose innovative rule and personal
excesses required England to subdue the unrestricted authority of the Raj by
law. What survives of Clive and Hastings in Creighton is their sense of
freedom, their willingness to improvise, their preference for informality.
After such ruthless pioneers came Thomas Munro and Mountstuart Elphin-
stone, reformers and synthesizers who were among the first senior scholar-
administrators whose dominion reflected something resembling expert
knowledge. There are also the great scholar figures for whom service in
India was an opportunity to study an alien culture — men like Sir William
(“Asiatic”) Jones, Charles Wilkins, Nathaniel Halhed, Henry Colebrooke,
Jonathan Duncan. These men belonged to principally commercial enter-
prises, and they seemed not to feel, as Creighton (and Kipling) did, that work
in India was as patterned and economical (in the literal sense) as running a
total system.
Creighton's norms are those of disinterested government, government
based not upon whim or personal preference (as was the case for Clive), but
upon laws, principles of order and control. Creighton embodies the notion
that you cannot govern India unless you know India, and to know India
means to understand the way it operates. The understanding developed
during William Bentinck’s rule as Governor-General and drew on Oriental-
ist as well as Utilitarian principles for ruling the largest number of Indians
with the greatest benefits (to Indians as well as the British), 146 but it was
always enclosed by the unchanging fact of British imperial authority, which
set the Governor apart from ordinary human beings, for whom questions of
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right and wrong, of virtue and harm are emotionally involving and impor-
tant. To the government person representing Britain in India, the main thing
is not whether something is good or evil, and therefore must be changed or
kept, but whether it works or not, whether it helps or hinders in ruling the
alien entity. Thus Creighton satisfies the Kipling who had imagined an ideal
India, unchanging and attractive, as an eternally integral part of the empire.
This was an authority one could give in to.
In a celebrated essay, “Kipling’s Place in the History of Ideas,” Noel
Annan presents the notion that Kipling’s vision of society was similar to that
of the new sociologists — Durkheim, Weber, and Pareto — who
saw society as a nexus of groups; and the pattern of behaviour which
these groups unwittingly established, rather than men’s wills or any-
thing so vague as a class, cultural or national tradition, primarily deter-
mined men’s actions. They asked how these groups promoted order or
instability in society, whereas their predecessors had asked whether
certain groups helped society to progress . 147
Annan goes on to say that Kipling was similar to the founders of modem
sociological discourse insofar as he believed efficient government in India
depended upon “the forces of social control [religion, law, custom, conven-
tion, morality] which imposed upon individuals certain rules which they
broke at their peril." It had become almost a commonplace of British impe-
rial theory that the British empire was different from (and better than) the
Roman Empire in that it was a rigorous system in which order and law
prevailed, whereas the latter was mere robbery and profit. Cromer makes the
point in Ancient and Modem Imperialism, and so does Marlow in Heart of
Darkness.'** Creighton understands this perfectly, which is why he works
with Muslims, Bengalis, Afghans, Tibetans without appearing ever to belit-
tle their beliefs or slight their differences. It was a natural insight for Kipling
to have imagined Creighton as a scientist whose specialty includes the
minute workings of a complex society, rather than as either a colonial
bureaucrat or a rapacious profiteer. Creighton’s Olympian humor, his affec-
tionate but detached attitude to people, his eccentric bearing, are Kipling’s
embellishments on an ideal Indian official.
Creighton the organization man not only presides over the Great Game
(whose ultimate beneficiary is of course the Kaiser-i-Hind, or Queen Em-
press, and her British people), but also works hand in hand with the novelist
himself. If we can ascribe a consistent point of view to Kipling, we can find
it in Creighton, more than anyone else. Like Kipling, Creighton respects the
distinctions within Indian society. When Mahbub Ali tells Kim that he must
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never forget that he is a Sahib, he speaks as Creighton’s trusted, experienced
employee. Like Kipling, Creighton never tampers with the hierarchies, the
priorities and privileges of caste, religion, ethnicity, and race; neither do the
men and women who work for him. By the late nineteenth century the
so-called Warrant of Precedence — which began, according to Geoffrey
Moorhouse, by recognizing “fourteen different levels of status” — had ex-
panded to “sixty-one, some reserved for one person, others shared by a
number of people .” 149 Moorhouse speculates that the love-hate relationship
between British and Indians derived from the complex hierarchical attitudes
present in both people. “Each grasped the other’s basic social premise and
not only understood it but subconsciously respected it as a curious variant
of their own .” 150 One sees this kind of thinking reproduced nearly every-
where in Kim — Kipling’s patiently detailed register of India’s different races
and castes, the acceptance by everyone (even the lama) of the doctrine of
racial separation, the lines and customs which cannot easily be traversed by
outsiders. Everyone in Kim is equally an outsider to other groups and an
insider in his.
Creighton’s appreciation of Kim’s abilities — his quickness, his capacity for
disguise and for getting into a situation as if it were native to him — is like
the novelist’s interest in this complex and chameleon-like character, who
darts in and out of adventure, intrigue, episode. The ultimate analogy is
between the Great Game and the novel itself. To be able to see all India
from the vantage of controlled observation: this is one great satisfaction.
Another is to have at one’s fingertips a character who can sportingly cross
lines and invade territories, a little Friend of all the World — Kim O’Hara
himself. It is as if by holding Kim at the center of the novel (just as Creighton
the spy master holds the boy in the Great Game) Kipling can have and enjoy
India in a way that even imperialism never dreamed of.
W'hat does this mean in terms of so codified and organized a structure as
the late-nineteenth-century realistic novel? Along with Conrad, Kipling is
a writer of fiction whose heroes belong to a startlingly unusual world of
foreign adventure and personal charisma. Kim, Lord Jim, and Kurtz, say, are
creatures with flamboyant wills who presage later adventurers like T. E.
Lawrence in The Seven Pillars of Wisdom and Malraux’s Perken in La Voie
royale, Conrad’s heroes, afflicted as they may be by an unusual power of
reflection and cosmic irony, remain in the memory as strong, often heed-
lessly daring men of action.
And although their fiction belongs to the genre of adventure-imperialism
— along with the work of Rider Haggard, Doyle, Charles Reade, Vernon
Fielding, G. A. Henty, and dozens of lesser writers — Kipling and Conrad
claim serious aesthetic and critical attention.
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But one way of grasping what is unusual about Kipling is to recall briefly
who his contemporaries were. We have become so used to seeing him
alongside Haggard and Buchan that we have forgotten that as an artist he
can justifiably be compared with Hardy, Henry James, Meredith, Gissing,
the later George Eliot, George Moore, or Samuel Butler. In France, his peers
are Flaubert and Zola, even Proust and the early Gide. Yet the works of
these writers are essentially novels of disillusion and disenchantment,
whereas Kim is not Almost without exception the protagonist of the late-
nineteenth-century novel is someone who has realized that his or her life’s
project — the wish to be great, rich, or distinguished — is mere fancy, illusion,
dream. Frederic Moreau in Flaubert’s Sentimental Education, or Isabel Archer
in The Portrait of a Lady , or Ernest Pontifex in Butler’s The Way of All
Flesh — the figure is a young man or woman bitterly awakened from a fancy
dream of accomplishment, action, or glory, forced instead to come to terms
with a reduced status, betrayed love, and a hideously bourgeois world, crass
and philistine.
This awakening is not to be found in Kim. Nothing brings the point home
more powerfully than a comparison between Kim and his nearly exact
contemporary Jude Fawley, the “hero” of Thomas Hardy’s fade the Obscure
(1894). Both are eccentric orphans objectively at odds with their environ-
ment: Kim is an Irishman in India, Jude a minimally gifted rural English boy
who is interested more in Greek than in farming. Both imagine lives of
appealing attractiveness for themselves, and both try to achieve these lives
through apprenticeship of some son, Kim as chela to the wandering Abbot-
Lama, Jude as a supplicant student at the university. But there the compari-
sons stop. Jude is ensnared by one circumstance after the other; he marries
the ill-suited Arabella, falls in love disastrously with Sue Bridehead, con-
ceives children who commit suicide, ends his days as a neglected man after
years of pathetic wandering. Kim, by contrast, graduates from one brilliant
success to another.
Yet it is important to insist again on the similarities between Kim and 'Jude
the Obscure. Both boys, Kim and Jude, are singled out for their unusual
pedigree; neither is like “normal” boys, whose parents and family assure a
smooth passage through life. Central to their predicaments is the problem
of identity — what to be, where to go, what to do. Since they cannot be like
the others, who are they? They are restless seekers and wanderers, like the
archetypal hero of the novel form itself, Don Quixote, who decisively marks
off the world of the novel in its fallen, unhappy state, its “lost transcen-
dence,” as Lukacs puts it in The Theory of the Novel, from the happy, satisfied
world of the epic. Every novelistic hero, Lukacs says, attempts to restore the
lost world of his or her imagination, which in the late-nineteenth-century
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novel of disillusionment is an unrealizable dream . 151 Jude, like Frederic
Moreau, Dorothea Brooke, Isabel Archer, Ernest Pontifex, and all the others,
is condemned to such a fate. The paradox of personal identity is that it is
implicated in that unsuccessful dream. Jude would not be who he is were it
not for his futile wish to become a scholar. Escape from being a social
non-entity holds out the promise of relief, but that is impossible. The
structural irony is precisely that conjunction: what you wish for is exactly
what you cannot have. The poignancy and defeated hope at the end of Jude
the Obscure have become synonymous with Jude’s very identity.
Because he gets beyond this paralyzing, dispiriting impasse, Kim O’Hara
is so remarkably optimistic a character. Like those of other heroes of impe-
rial fiction, his actions result in victories not defeats. He restores India to
health, as the invading foreign agents are apprehended and expelled. Part of
his strength is his deep, almost instinctive knowledge of this difference from
the Indians around him; he has a special amulet given him during infancy,
and unlike the other boys he plays with — this is established at the novel’s
opening — he is endowed through natal prophecy with a unique fate of
which he wishes to make everyone aware. Later he becomes explicitly aware
of being a Sahib, a white man, and whenever he wavers there is someone to
remind him that he is indeed a Sahib, with all the rights and privileges of
that special rank. Kipling even makes the saintly guru affirm the difference
between a white man and a non-white.
But that alone does not impart to the novel its curious sense of enjoyment
and confidence. Compared with James or .Conrad, Kipling was not an intro-
spective writer, nor — from the evidence that we have— did he think of
himself, likejoyce, as an A rust. The force of his best writing comes from ease
and fluency, the seeming naturalness of his narration and characterization,
while the sheer variousness of his creativity rivals that of Dickens and
Shakespeare. Language for him was not, as it was for Conrad, a resistant
medium; it was transparent, easily capable of many tones and inflections, all
of them directly representative of the world he explored. And this language
gives Kim his sprightliness and wit, his energy and attractiveness. In many
ways Kim resembles a character who might have been drawn much earlier
in the nineteenth century, by a writer like Stendhal, for example, whose
vivid portrayals of Fabrice del Dongo andjulien Sorel have the same blend
of adventure and wistfulness, which Stendhal called espagnolisme. For Kim,
as for Stendhal’s characters and unlike Hardy’s Jude, the world is full of
possibilities, much like Caliban's island, “full of noises, sounds, and sweet
airs, that give delight and hurt not.”
At times, that world is restful, even idyllic. So we get not only the bustle
and vitality of the Grand Trunk Road, but also the welcoming, gentle
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pastoralism of the scene en route with the old soldier (Chapter 3) as the little
group of travellers reposes peacefully:
There was a drowsy buzz of small life in hot sunshine, a cooing of
doves, and a sleepy drone of well-wheels across the fields. Slowly and
impressively the lama began. At the end of ten minutes the old soldier
slid from his pony, to hear better as he said, and sat with the reins round
his wrist. The lama’s voice faltered — the periods lengthened. Kim was
busy watching a gray squirrel. When the little scolding bunch of fur,
close pressed to the branch, disappeared, preacher and audience were
fast asleep, the old officer’s strong-cut head pillowed on his arm, the
lama’s thrown back against the tree bole, where it showed like yellow
ivory. A naked child toddled up, stared, and moved by some quick
impulse of reverence made a solemn little obeisance before the lama —
only the child was so short and fat that it toppled over sideways, and
Kim laughed at the sprawling, chubby legs. The child, scared and
indignant, yelled aloud. 152
On all sides of this Edenic composure is the “wonderful spectacle” of the
Grand Trunk Road, where, as the old soldier puts it, “ ‘all castes and kinds
of men move . . . Brahmins and chumars, bankers and tinkers, barbers and
bunnias, pilgrims and potters — all the world coming and going. It is to me
as a river from which I am withdrawn like a log after a flood.’ ” 155
One fascinating index of Kim’s way with this teeming, strangely hospita-
ble world is his remarkable gift for disguise. We first see him perched on the
ancient gun in a square in Lahore — where it still stands today — an Indian
boy among other Indian boys. Kipling carefully differentiates the religions
and backgrounds of each boy (the Muslim, the Hindu, the Irish) but is just
as careful to show us that none of these identities, though they may hinder
the other boys, is a hindrance to Kim. He can pass from one dialect, one set
of values and beliefs, to the other. Throughout the book Kim takes on the
dialects of numerous Indian communities; he speaks Urdu, English (Kipling
does a superbly funny, gentle mockery of his stilted Anglo-Indian, finely
distinguished from the Babu’s orotund verbosity), Eurasian, Hindi, and
Bengali; when Mahbub speaks Pashru, Kim gets that too; when the lama
speaks Chinese Tibetan, Kim understands that. As orchestrator of this Babel
of tongues, this veritable Noah’s Ark of Sansis, Kashmiris, Akalis, Sikhs, and
many others, Kipling also manages Kim’s chameleon-like progress dancing
in and out of it all, like a great actor passing through many situations and
at home in each.
How very different this all is from the lusterless world of the European
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bourgeoisie, whose ambiance as every novelist of importance renders it
reconfirms the debasement of contemporary life, the extinction of all dreams
of passion, success, and exotic adventure. Kipling’s fiction offers an antithe-
sis: his world, because it is set in an India dominated by Britain, holds
nothing back from the expatriate European. Kim shows how a white Sahib
can enjoy life in this lush complexity; and, I would argue, the absence of
resistance to European intervention in it — symbolized by Kim’s abilities to
move relatively unscarred through India — is due to its imperialist vision.
For what one cannot accomplish in one’s own Western environment —
where trying to live out the grand dream of a successful quest means coming
up against one’s own mediocrity and the world’s corruption and degrada-
tion — one can do abroad. Isn’t it possible in India to do everything? be
anything? go anywhere with impunity?
Consider the pattern of Kim’s wanderings as they affect the structure of
the novel. Most of his voyages move within the Punjab, around the axis
formed by Lahore and Umballa, a British garrison town on the frontier of
the United Provinces. The Grand Trunk Road, built by the great Muslim
ruler Sher Shan in the late sixteenth century, runs from Peshawar to Cal-
cutta, although the lama never goes farther south and east than Benares. Kim
makes excursions to Simla, to Lucknow, and later to the Kulu valley; with
Mahbub he goes as far south as Bombay and as far west as Karachi. But the
overall impression created by these voyages is of carefree meandering.
Occasionally Kim’s trips are punctuated by the requirements of the school
year at St Xavier’s, but the only serious agendas, the only equivalents of
temporal pressure on the characters, are (a) the Abbot-Lama’s Search, which
is fairly elastic, and (b) the pursuit and final expulsion of the foreign agents
trying to stir up trouble on the Northwest Frontier. There are no scheming
money-lenders here, no village prigs, no vicious gossips or unattractive and
heartless parvenus, as there are in the novels of Kipling’s major European
contemporaries.
Now contrast Kim's rather loose structure, based as it is on a luxurious
geographical and spatial expansiveness, with the tight, relentlessly unforgiv-
ing temporal structure of the European novels contemporary with it. Time,
says Lukacs in The Theory of the Novel, is the great ironist, almost a character
in these novels, as it drives the protagonist further into illusion and derange-
ment, and also reveals his or her illusions to be groundless, empty, bitterly
futile . 154 In Kim, you have the impression that time is on your side, because
the geography is yours to move about in more or less freely. Certainly Kim
feels that, and so does Colonel Creighton, in his patience, and in the
sporadic, even vague way he appears and disappears. The opulence of
India’s space, the commanding British presence there, the sense of freedom
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communicated by the interaction between these two factors add up to a
wonderfully positive atmosphere irradiating the pages of Kim. This is not a
driven world of hastening disaster, as in Flaubert or Zola.
The novel’s ease of atmosphere also comes, I think, from Kipling’s own
recollected sense of being at home in India. In Kim representatives of the Raj
seem to have no problem with being “abroad”; India for them requires
no self-conscious apologetic, no embarrassment or unease. The French-
speaking Russian agents admit that in India, “we have nowhere left our mark
yet,” 155 but the British know they have, so much so that Hurree, that
self-confessed “Oriental,” is agitated by the Russians’ conspiracy on behalf
of the Raj, not his own people. When the Russians attack the lama and rip
apart his map, the defilement is metaphorically of India itself, and Kim
corrects this defilement later. Kipling’s mind plays over reconciliation, heal-
ing, and wholeness in the conclusion, and his means are geographical: the
British repossessing India, in order once again to enjoy its spaciousness, to
be at home in it again, and again.
There is a striking coincidence between Kipling’s reassertion over the
geography of India and Camus’s in some of his Algerian stories written
almost a half century later. Their gestures are symptomatic not of confi-
dence, but of a lurking, often unacknowledged malaise, I believe. For if you
belong in a place, you do not have to keep saying and showing in you just
are, like the silent Arabs in L 'Etranger or the fuzzy-haired Blacks in Heart of
Darkness or the various Indians in Kim. But colonial, i.e., geographical,
appropriation requires such assertive inflections, and these emphases are the
hallmark of the imperial culture reconfirming itself to and for itself
Kipling’s geographical and spatial governance of Kim rather than the
temporal one of metropolitan European fiction, gains special eminence by
political and historical factors; it expresses an irreducible political judge-
ment on Kipling’s part. It is as if he were saying, India is ours and therefore
we can see it in this mostly uncontested, meandering, and fulfilling way.
India is “other” and, importantly, for all its wonderful size and variety, it is
safely held by Britain.
Kipling arranges another aesthetically satisfying coincidence, and it, too,
must be taken into account This is the confluence between Creighton’s
Great Game and Kim’s inexhaustibly renewed capacity for disguises and
adventure; Kipling keeps the two tightly connected. The first is a device of
political surveillance and control; the second, at a deeper and interesting
level, is a wish-fantasy of someone who would like to think that everything
is possible, that one can go anywhere and be anything. T. E. Lawrence in
The Seven Pillars of Wisdom expresses this fantasy over and over, as he
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reminds us how he — a blond, blue-eyed Englishman — moved among the
desert Arabs as if he were one of them.
1 call this a fantasy because, as both Kipling and Lawrence endlessly
remind us, no one — least of all actual whites and non-whites in the colo-
nies — ever forgets that “going native’’ or playing the Great Game depends
on the rock-like foundations of European power. Was there ever a native
fooled by the blue- or green-eyed Kims and T. E. Lawrences who passed
among them as agent adventurers? I doubt it, just as 1 doubt that any white
man or woman lived within the orbit of European imperialism who ever
forgot that the discrepancy in power between the white rulers and the native
subjects was absolute, intended to be unchanging, rooted in cultural, politi-
cal, and economic reality.
Kim, the positive boy hero who travels in disguise all over India, across
boundaries and rooftops, into tents and villages, is everlastingly responsible
to British power, represented by Creighton's Great Game. The reason we
can see that so clearly is that since Kim was written India has become
independent, just as since the publication of Gide’s The Immoralist and
Camus’s The Stranger Algeria has become independent of France. To read
these major works of the imperial period retrospectively and heterophoni-
cally with other histories and traditions counterpointed against them, to read
them in the light of decolonization, is neither to slight their great aesthetic
force, nor to treat them reductively as imperialist propaganda. Still, it is a
much graver mistake to read them stripped of their affiliations with the facts
of power which informed and enabled them.
The device invented by Kipling by which British control over India
(the Great Game) coincides in detail with Kim’s disguise fantasy to be at
one with India, and later to heal its defilements, obviously could not have
occurred without British imperialism. We must read the novel as the real-
ization of a great cumulative process, which in the closing years of the
nineteenth century is reaching its last major moment before Indian inde-
pendence: on the one hand, surveillance and control over India; on the
other, love for and fascinated attention to its every detail. The overlap
between the political hold of the one and the aesthetic and psychological
pleasure of the other is made possible by British imperialism itself; Kipling
understood this, yet many of his later readers refuse to accept this trou-
bling, even embarrassing truth. And it was not just Kipling’s recognition of
British imperialism in general, but imperialism at that specific moment in
its history, when it had almost lost sight of the unfolding dynamics of a
human and secular truth: the truth that India had existed before the Euro-
peans arrived, that control was seized by a European power, and that
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Indian resistance to that power would inevitably struggle out from under
British subjugation.
In reading Kim today we can watch a great artist in a sense blinded by his
own insights about India, confusing the realities that he saw with such color
and ingenuity, with the notion that they were permanent and essential.
Kipling takes from the novel form qualities that he tries to bend to this
basically obfuscatory end. But it is surely a great artistic irony that he does
not truly succeed in this obfuscation, and his attempt to use the novel for this
purpose reaffirms his aesthetic integrity. Kim most assuredly is not a political
tract. Kipling’s choice of the novel form and of his character Kim O’Hara to
engage profoundly with an India that he loved but could not properly
have— this is what we should keep resolutely as the book’s central meaning.
Then we can read Kim as a great document of its historical moment and, too,
an aesthetic milestone along the way to midnight August 14-15, 1947, a
moment whose children have done so much to revise our sense of the past’s
richness and its enduring problems.
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I have been trying, on the one hand, to focus on those aspects of an ongoing
European culture that imperialism made use of as its successes acceler-
ated and, on the other, to describe how it was that the imperial European
would not or could not see that he or she was an imperialist and, ironically,
how it was that the non-European in the same circumstances saw the
European only as imperial. “For the native,” Fanon says, such a European
value as “objectivity is always directed against him.” 156
Even so, can one speak of imperialism as being so ingrained in nineteenth-
century Europe as to have become indistinguishable from the culture as a
whole? What is the meaning of a word like “imperialist” when it is used for
Kipling’s jingoist work as well for his subtler literary work, or for his
contemporaries Tennyson and Ruskin? Is every cultural artefact theoreti-
cally implicated?
Two answers propose themselves. No, we must say, such concepts as
“imperialism” have a generalized quality that masks with an unacceptable
vagueness the interesting heterogeneity of Western metropolitan cultures.
Discriminations must be made between one kind of cultural work and
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another when it comes to involvement in imperialism; so we can say, for
example, that for all his illiberalism about India, John Stuart Mill was more
complex and enlightened in his attitudes to the notion of empire than either
Carlyle or Ruskin (Mill’s behavior in the Eyre case was principled, even
retrospectively admirable). The same is true of Conrad and Kipling as artists
compared with Buchan or Haggard. Yet the objection that culture should not
be considered a part of imperialism can become a tactic to prevent one from
seriously connecting the two. By looking at culture and imperialism care-
fully, we may discern various forms in the relationship, and we shall see that
we can profitably draw connections that enrich and sharpen our reading of
major cultural texts. The paradoxical point, of course, is that European
culture was no less complex, rich, or interesting for having supported most
aspects of the imperial experience.
Let us look at Conrad and Flaubert, writers who worked in the second
half of the nineteenth century, the former concerned explicitly with imperi-
alism, the latter implicidy involved with it. Despite their differences both
writers similarly emphasize characters whose capacity for isolating and
surrounding themselves in structures they create takes the same form as the
colonizer at the center of an empire he rules. Axel Heyst in Victory and St
Antoine in La Tentation — late works, both — are withdrawn into a place
where, like guardians of a magic totality, they incorporate a hostile world
purged of its troubling resistances to their control of it. These solitary
withdrawals have a long history in Conrad’s fiction — Almayer, Kurtz at the
Inner Station, Jim at Patusan, and most memorably Charles Gould in Sulaco;
in Flaubert they recur with increasing intensity after Madame Bovary. Yet
unlike Robinson Crusoe on his island, these modern versions of the imperi-
alist who attempts self-redemption are doomed ironically to suffer interrup-
tion and distraction, as what they had tried to exclude from their island
worlds penetrates anyway. The covert influence of imperial control in
Flaubert’s imagery of solitary imperiousness is striking when juxtaposed
with Conrad’s overt representations.
Within the codes of European fiction, these interruptions of an imperial
project are realistic reminders that no one can in fact withdraw from the
world into a private version of reality. The link back to Don Quixote is
obvious, as is the continuity with institutional aspects of the novel form
itself, where the aberrant individual is usually disciplined and punished in
the interests of a corporate identity. In Conrad’s overtly colonial settings, the
disruptions are occasioned by Europeans, and they are enfolded within a
narrative structure that is retrospectively resubmitted to European scrutiny
for interpretation and questioning. One sees this in both the early Lord Jim
and the later Victory : as the idealistic or withdrawn white man (Jim, Heyst)
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
lives a life of somewhat Quixotic seclusion, his space is invaded by Mephis-
tophelian emanations, adventurers whose subsequent malfeasance is exam-
ined retrospectively by a narrating white man.
Heart of Darkness is another example. Marlow’s audience is English, and
Marlow himself penetrates to Kurtz’s private domain as an inquiring West-
ern mind trying to make sense of an apocalyptic revelation. Most readings
rightly call attention to Conrad’s skepticism about the colonial enterprise,
but they rarely remark that in telling the story of his African journey Marlow
repeats and confirms Kurtz’s action: restoring Africa to European hegemony
by historicizing and narrating its strangeness. The savages, the wilderness,
even the surface folly of popping shells into a vast continent — all these
reaccentuate Marlow’s need to place the colonies on the imperial map and
under the overarching temporality of narratable history, no matter how
complicated and circuitous the results.
Marlow’s historical equivalents, to take two prominent examples, would
be Sir Henry Maine and Sir Roderick Murchison, men celebrated for their
massive cultural and scientific work — work unintelligible except in the
imperial context. Maine’s great study Ancient Law (1861) explores the struc-
ture of law in a primitive patriarchal society that accorded privilege to fixed
“status” and could not become modern until the transformation to a “con-
tractual” basis took place. Maine uncannily prefigures Foucault’s history, in
Discipline and Punish, of the shift in Europe from “sovereign” to administra-
tive surveillance. The difference is that for Maine the empire became a sort
of laboratory for proving his theory (Foucault treats the Benthamite Panop-
ticon in use at European correctional facilities as the proof of his): appointed
to the Viceroy’s Council in India as legal member, Maine regarded his
sojourn in the East as an “extended field-trip.” He fought the Utilitarians on
issues concerning the sweeping reform of Indian legislation (two hundred
pieces of which he wrote), and interpreted his task as the identification and
preservation of Indians who could be rescued from “status” and, as carefully
nurtured elites, brought over to the contractual basis of British policy. In
Village Communities (1871) and later in his Rede Lectures, Maine outlined a
theory amazingly like Marx’s: that feudalism in India, challenged by British
colonialism, was a necessary development; in time, he argued, a feudal lord
would establish the basis for individual ownership and allow a prototype
bourgeoisie to emerge.
The equally striking Roderick Murchison was a soldier turned geologist,
geographer, and administrator of the Royal Geographical Society. As Robert
Stafford points out in a gripping account of Murchison's life and career,
given the man’s military background, his peremptory conservatism, his
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inordinate self-confidence and will, his tremendous scientific and acquisitive
zeal, it was inevitable that he approached his work as a geologist like an
all-conquering army whose campaigns added power and global reach to the
British empire. 157 Whether in Britain itself, Russia, Europe, or the An-
tipodes, Africa, or India, Murchison’s work was empire. “Travelling and
colonizing are still as much the ruling passions of Englishmen as they were
in the days of Raleigh and Drake,” he once said. 158
Thus in his tales Conrad re-enacts the imperial gesture of pulling in
virtually the entire world, and he represents its gains while stressing its
irreducible ironies. His historicist vision overrides the other histories con-
tained in the narrative sequence; its dynamic sanctions Africa, Kurtz, and
Marlow — despite their radical eccentricity — as objects of a superior West-
ern (but admittedly problematic) constitutive understanding. Yet, as I have
said, much of Conrad’s narrative is preoccupied with what eludes articulate
expression — the jungle, the desperate natives, the great river, Africa’s mag-
nificent, ineffable dark life. On the second of the two occasions when a native
utters an intelligible word, he thrusts an “insolent black head” through a
doorway to announce Kurtz’s death, as if only a European pretext could
famish an African with reason enough to speak coherently. Less the ac-
knowledgement of an essential African difference, Marlow’s narrative takes
the African experience as farther acknowledgement of Europe’s world sig-
nificance; Africa recedes in integral meaning, as if with Kurtz’s passing it had
once again become the blankness his imperial will had sought to overcome.
Conrad’s readers of the time were not expected to ask about or concern
themselves with what became of the natives. What mattered to them was
how Marlow makes sense of everything, for without his deliberately fash-
ioned narrative there is no history worth telling, no fiction worth entertain-
ing, no authority worth consulting. This is a short step away from King
Leopold’s account of his International Congo Association, “rendering lasting
and disinterested services to the cause of progress,” 159 and described by one
admirer in 1885 as the “noblest and most self-sacrificing scheme for African
development that has ever been or ever will be attempted.”
Chinua Achebe’s well-known criticism of Conrad (that he was a racist
who totally dehumanized Africa’s native population) does not go far enough
in emphasizing what in Conrad’s early fiction becomes more pronounced
and explicit in the late works, like Nostromo and Victory, that do not deal with
Africa. 140 In Nostromo the history of Costaguana is the merciless one of a
white family with grandiose schemes and suicidal bent. Neither the local
Indians nor the ruling-class Spaniards of Sulaco offer an alternative perspec-
tive: Conrad treats them with something of the same pitying contempt and
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
exoticism he reserves for African Blacks and Southeast Asian peasants. In the
end, Conrad’s audience was European, and his fiction had the effect not of
challenging but of confirming that fact and consolidating consciousness of it,
even though paradoxically his own corrosive skepticism was thereby re-
leased. A similar dynamic appears in Flaubert.
Despite their fineness and reticulation, then, the inclusive cultural forms
dealing with peripheral non-European settings are markedly ideological and
selective (even repressive) so far as “natives” are concerned, just as the
picturesqueness of nineteenth-century colonial painting 161 is, despite its
“realism,” ideological and repressive: it effectively silences the Other, it
reconstitutes difference as identity, it rules over and represents domains
figured by occupying powers, not by inactive inhabitants. The interesting
question is what, if anything, resisted such directly imperial narratives as
Conrad’s? Was the consolidated vision of Europe unbroken? or was it irre-
sistible and unopposed within Europe?
European imperialism indeed developed European opposition — as A. P.
Thornton, Porter, and Hobson demonstrate 162 — between the middle and the
end of the century; certainly the Abolitionists, Anthony Trollope, and Gold-
win Smith, for example, were relatively honorable figures among many
individual and group movements. Still, people like Froude, Dilke, and
Seeley represented the overwhelmingly more powerful and successful pro-
imperial culture . 163 Missionaries, although they often functioned as agents
of one or another imperial power throughout the nineteenth century, were
sometimes able to curb the worst colonial excesses, as Stephen Neill argues
in Colonialism and Christian Missions .' 64 It is also true that Europeans brought
modern technological change — steam engines, telegraphs, and even educa-
tion — to some of the natives, benefits that persisted beyond the colonial
period, although not without negative aspects. But the startling purity of the
imperial quest in Heart of Darkness — when Marlow acknowledges that he
always felt a passion to fill in the great blank spaces on the map — remains
the overwhelming reality, a constitutive reality, in the culture of imperial-
ism. In its impulsive power the gesture recalls actual explorers and imperial-
ists like Rhodes, Murchison, and Stanley. There is no minimizing the
discrepant power established by imperialism and prolonged in the colonial
encounter. Conrad underscores that actuality not just in the content but also
in the form of Kurtz’s seventeen-page report to the Society for the Suppres-
sion of Savage Customs: the aim to civilize and bring light to dark places is
both antithetical and logically equivalent to its effective end: the desire to
“exterminate the brutes” who may not be cooperative or may entertain ideas
about resistance. In Sulaco, Gould is both the mine’s patron and the man who
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The Native Under Control 167
plans to blow up the enterprise. No connectives are necessary: the imperial
vision enables the natives’ life and death at the same time.
But of course the natives could not really all be made to disappear, and
in fact they encroached more and more on the imperial consciousness. And
what follow are schemes for separating the natives — Africans, Malays,
Arabs, Berbers, Indians, Nepalese, Javanese, Filipinos — from the white man
on racial and religious grounds, then for reconstituting them as people
requiring a European presence, whether a colonial implantation or a master
discourse in which they could be fitted and put to work. Thus, on the one
hand, one has Kipling’s fiction positing the Indian as a creature clearly
needing British tutelage, one aspect of which is a narrative that encircles and
then assimilates India, since without Britain India would disappear into its
own corruption and underdevelopment. (Kipling here repeats the well-
known views of James and John Stuart Mill and other Utilitarians during
their tenure at India House.) 16s
Or, on the other hand, one has the shadowy discourse of colonial capi-
talism, with its roots in liberal free-trade policies (also deriving from
evangelical literature), in which, for instance, the indolent native again
figures as someone whose natural depravity and loose character necessi-
tate a European overlord. We see this in the observations of colonial rul-
ers like Galieni, Hubert Lyautey, Lord Cromer, Hugh Clifford, and John
Bowring: “His hands are large, and the toes of his feet pliant, being ex-
ercised in climbing trees, and divers other active functions. . . . The
impressions made upon him are transitory, and he retains a feeble mem-
ory of passing or past events. Ask him his age, he will not be able to an-
swer: who were his ancestors? he neither knows nor cares. . . . His master
vice is idleness, which is his felicity. The labour that necessity demands
he gives grudgingly.” 166 And we see it in the monographic rigors of schol-
arly colonial social scientists like the economic historian Clive Day, who
in 1904 wrote, “In practice it has been found impossible to secure the ser-
vices of the native [Javanese] population by any appeal to an ambition to
better themselves and raise their standard. Nothing less than immediate
material enjoyment will stir them from their indolent routine.” 167 These
descriptions commodified the natives and their labor and glossed over
the actual historical conditions, spiriting away the facts of drudgery and
resistance. 168
But these accounts also spirited away, occluded, and elided the real power
of the observer, who for reasons guaranteed only by power and by its
alliance with the spirit of World History, could pronounce on the reality of
native peoples as from an invisible point of super-objective perspective,
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
using the protocols and jargon of new sciences to displace “the natives’ ”
point of view. As Romila Thapar points out, for example,
The history of India became one of the means of propagating those
interests. Traditional Indian historical writing, with its emphasis on
historical biographies and chronicles, was largely ignored. European
writing on Indian history was an attempt to create a fresh historical
tradition. The historiographical pattern of the Indian past which took
shape during the colonial period in the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries was probably similar to the patterns which emerged in the
histories of other colonial societies. 169
Even oppositional thinkers like Marx and Engels were no less capable of
such pronouncements than French and British governmental spokesmen;
both political camps relied on colonial documents, the fully encoded dis-
course of Orientalism, for example, and Hegel’s view of the Orient and
Africa as static, despotic, and irrelevant to world history. When on Septem-
ber 17, 1857, Engels spoke of the Moors of Algeria as a “timid race” because
they were repressed but “reserving nevertheless their cruelty and vindic-
tiveness while in moral character they stand very low,” 170 he was merely
echoing French colonial doctrine. Conrad similarly used colonial accounts
of lazy natives, much as Marx and Engels spun out their theories of Oriental
and African ignorance and superstition. This is a second aspect of the
wordless imperial wish; for if the obdurately material natives are trans-
formed from subservient beings into inferior humanity, then the colonizer
is similarly transformed into an invisible scribe, whose writing reports on the
Other and at the same time insists on its scientific disinterestedness and (as
Katherine George has noted) 171 the steady improvement in the condition,
character, and custom of primitives as a result of their contact with European
civilization. 1 ”
At the apex of high imperialism early in this century, then, we have a
conjunctural fusion between, on the one hand, the historicizing codes of
discursive writing in Europe, positing a world universally available to trans-
national impersonal scrutiny, and, on the other hand, a massively colonized
World. The object of this consolidated vision is always either a victim or a
highly constrained character, permanently threatened with severe punish-
ment, despite his or her many virtues, services, or achievements, excluded
ontologically for having few of the merits of the conquering, surveying, and
civilizing outsider. For the colonizer the incorporate apparatus requires
unremitting effort to maintain. For the victim, imperialism offers these
alternatives: serve or be destroyed.
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Camus and the French Imperial Experience 169
( vii )
Camus and the French Imperial Experience
Y et not all empires were the same. France’s empire, according to one of
its most famous historians, though no less interested than Britain’s in
profit, plantations, and slaves, was energized by “prestige.” 173 Its various
domains acquired (and sometimes lost) over three centuries were presided
over by its irradiating “genius,” itself a function of France’s “vocation superi-
eure , ”in the words of Delavigne and Charles Andr6 Julien, the compilers of
a fascinating work, Les Constructeurs de la France d’outre-men 11 * Their cast of
characters begins with Champlain and Richelieu, includes such redoubtable
proconsuls as Bugeaud, conqueror of Algeria; Brazza, the man who estab-
lished the French Congo; Gallieni, the pacifier of Madagascar, and Lyautey,
along with Cromer the greatest of European rulers of Muslim Arabs. One
senses little equivalent of the British “departmental view,” and much more
the personal style of being French in a great assimilationist enterprise.
Whether this may only be a French self-perception does not really matter,
since consistency and regularity of appeal were the driving forces in justify-
ing territorial acquisition before, during, and after the fact. When Seeley (his
famous book was translated into French in 1885, and much admired and
commented upon) said of Britain’s empire that it was acquired absentmind-
edly, he was only describing an attitude very different from that of contem-
porary French writers on empire.
As Agnes Murphy shows, the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 directly stimu-
lated the increase in French geographical societies. 175 Geographical knowl-
edge and exploration were thereafter tied to the discourse (and acquisition)
of empire, and in the popular prominence of people like Eugene Etienne
(founder of the Groupe Coloniale in 1892) one may plot the rise of French
imperial theory to almost an exact science. After 1872 and for the first time,
according to Girardet, a coherent political doctrine of colonial expansion
developed at the head of the French state; between 1880 and 1895 French
colonial possessions went from 1.0 to 9.5 million square kilometers, from five
to fifty million native inhabitants. 176 At the Second International Congress
of Geographical Sciences in 1875, attended by the President of the Republic,
the Governor of Paris, the President of the Assembly, Admiral La Roucifere-
Le Noury’s opening address revealed the attitude prevalent throughout the'
meeting: “Gentlemen, Providence has dictated to us the obligation of know -
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
ing the earth and making the conquest of it. This supreme command is one
of the imperious duties inscribed on our intelligences and on our activities.
Geography, that science which inspires such beautiful devotedness and in
whose name so many victims have been sacrificed, has become the philoso-
phy of the earth.” 177
Sociology (inspired by Le Bon), psychology (inaugurated by Leopold de
Saussure), history, and of course anthropology flourished in the decades
after 1880, many of them culminating at International Colonial Congresses
(1889, 1894, etc.) or in specific groups (e.g., the 1890 International Congress of
Colonial Sociology or the 1902 Congress of Ethnographic Sciences in Paris).
Whole regions of the world were made the objects of learned colonial atten-
tion; Raymond Betts mentions that the Revue Internationale de sociologie de-
voted annual surveys to Madagascar in 1900, Laos and Cambodia in 1908. 178
The ideological theory of colonial assimilation begun under the Revolution
collapsed, as theories of racial types — Gustave Le Bon’s primitive, inferior,
intermediate, and superior races; or Ernest Seillfere’s philosophy of pure
force; or Albert Sarraut’s and Paul Leroy-Beaulieu’s systematics of colonial
practice; or Jules Harmand’s principle of domination 179 — guided French
imperial strategies. Natives and their lands were not to be treated as entities
that could be made French, but as possessions the immutable characteristics
of which required separation and subservience, even though this did not rule
out the minion civilisatrice. The influence of Fouill6e, Clozel, and Giran
turned such ideas into a language and, in the imperial realms themselves, a
practice that closely resembled a science, a science of ruling inferiors whose
resources, lands, and destinies France was in charge of. At best, France’s
relationship with Algeria, Senegal, Mauritania, Indochina was association
through “hierarchic partnership,” as Ren6 Maunier argues in his book The
Sociology of Colonies ,' 60 but Betts rightly notes that nonetheless the theory of
“imperialism did not occur by invitation but by force, and in the long run,
all noble doctrines considered, was only successful so long as this ultima ratio
was apparent.” 181
To compare discussion of empire by and for the French with the actuali-
ties of imperial conquest is to be struck by many disparities and ironies.
Pragmatic considerations were always allowed for people like Lyautey,
Gallieni, Faidherbe, Bugeaud — generals, proconsuls, administrators — to act
with force and draconian dispatch. Politicians like Jules Ferry, who ar-
ticulated imperial policy after (and during) the fact, reserved the right to
postulate goals that scanted the natives like “la gestion m£me et . . . la defense
du patrimoine nationale.” 183 For the lobbies and what today we call publi-
cists — ranging from novelists and jingoists to mandarin philosophers — the
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Camus and the French Imperial Experience 171
French empire was uniquely connected to the French national identity, its
brilliance, civilizational energy, special geographical, social, and historical
development. None of this was consistent or corresponded to daily life in
Martinique, or Algeria, or Gabon, or Madagascar, and this was, to put it
mildly, difficult for the natives. In addition, other empires — German, Dutch,
British, Belgian, American — were jostling France, approaching all-out war
(as at Fashoda) with it, negotiating with it (as in Arabia in 1917-18), threaten-
ing or emulating it. 1 ® 3
In Algeria, however inconsistent the policy of French governments since
1830, the inexorable process went on to make Algeria French. First the land
was taken from the natives and their buildings were occupied; then French
settlers gained control of the cork oak forests and mineral deposits. Then,
as David Prochaska notes for Annaba (formerly named B6ne), “they dis-
placed the Algerians and peopled [places like] B6ne with Europeans.” 1 ® 4 For
several decades after 1830 “booty capital” ran the economy, the native
population decreased, and settler groups increased. A dual economy came
into being. “The European economy can be likened by and large to a
firm-centered capitalist economy, while the Algerian economy can be com-
pared to a bazaar-oriented, pre-capitalist economy.” 185 So while “France
reproduced itself in Algeria,” 186 Algerians were relegated to marginality and
poverty. Prochaska compares a French colons account of the Bone story with
one by an Algerian patriot, whose version of events in Annaba “is like
reading the French historians of B6ne turned upside down.” 187
Over and above everything else, Arnaud trumpets the progress made
by the French in Bone after the mess left by the Algerians. “It is not
because the ‘old city’ is dirty” that it should be kept intact, but because
“it alone permits the visitor ... to understand better the grandeur and
beauty of the task accomplished by the French in this country in this
place previously deserted, barren and virtually without natural re-
sources,” this “small, ugly Arab village of scarcely 1,500 people.” 1 ® 8
No wonder that H’sen Derdour’s book on Annaba uses as a title for its
chapter on the Algerian revolution of 1954-1962, “Algeria, prisoner in a
universal concentration camp, bursts colonialism asunder and obtains its
freedom.” 1 ® 9
Next to Bone is the village of Mondovi, eighteen miles away, founded
in 1849 by “red” laborers transported by the government from Paris (as a
way of getting rid of politically troublesome elements) and endowed with
land expropriated from Algerian natives. Prochaska’s research shows how
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
Mondovi began as a wine-growing satellite of B6ne, a place where in 1913
Albert Camus was bom, the son of a “Spanish charwoman and a French
cellerman.” 1 ’ 0
Camus is the one author of French Algeria who can with justification be
considered of world status. As was Jane Austen a century earlier, Camus is
a novelist from whose work the facts of imperial actuality, so clearly there
to be noted, have dropped away; as in Austen a detachable ethos has re-
mained, an ethos suggesting universality and humanism, deeply at odds
with the descriptions of geographical locale plainly given in the fiction.
Fanny holds both Mansfield Park and the Antigua plantation; France holds
Algeria and, in the same narrative grasp, Meursault’s astonishingly existen-
tial isolation.
Camus is particularly important in the ugly colonial turbulence of
France’s twentieth-century decolonizing travail. He is a very late imperial
figure who not only survived the heyday of empire, but survives today as a
“universalist” writer with roots in a now forgotten colonialism. His retro-
spective relationship with George Orwell is even more interesting. Like
Orwell, Camus became a well-known writer around issues highlighted in the
1930s and 1940s: fascism, the Spanish Civil War, resistance to the fascist
onslaught, issues of poverty and social injustice treated from within the
discourse of socialism, the relationship between writers and politics, the role
of the intellectual. Both were famous for the clarity and plainness of their
style — we should recall Roland Barthes’s description of Camus’s style in Le
Degre zero de I’ecriture (1953) as ecriture blanche 1,1 — as well as the unaffected
clarity of their political formulations. Both also made the transformation to
the post-war years with less than happy results. Both, in short, are posthu-
mously interesting because of narratives they wrote that now seem to be
about a situation that on closer inspection appears quite different. Orwell’s
fictional examinations of British socialism have taken on a prophetic quality
(if you like them; symptomatic if you do not) in the domain of Cold War
polemic; Camus’s narratives of resistance and existential confrontation,
which had once seemed to be about withstanding or opposing both mortality
and Nazism, can now be read as part of the debate about culture and
imperialism.
Despite Raymond Williams’s rather powerful critique of Orwell’s social
vision, Orwell is regularly claimed by intellectuals on the Left and Right. 1 ’ 2
Was he a neo-conservative in advance of his time, as Norman Podhoretz
claims, or was he, as Christopher Hitchens more persuasively argues, a hero
of the Left? 1 ’ 3 Camus is somewhat less available to Anglo-American con-
cerns now, but he is cited as critic, political moralist, and admirable novelist
in discussions of terrorism and colonialism.”' 1 The striking parallel between
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Camus and the French Imperial Experience
m
Camus and Orwell is that both men have become exemplary figures in their
respective cultures, figures whose significance derives from but nevertheless
seems to transcend the immediate force of their native context. The note is
perfectly struck in a description of Camus that comes near the end of Conor
Cruise O’Brien’s agile demystification of him in a book that in many ways
resembles (and was written for the same series as) Raymond Williams’s
Modem Masters study of Orwell. O’Brien says:
Probably no European writer of his time left so deep a mark on the
imagination and, at the same time, on the moral and political con-
sciousness of his own generation and of the next. He was intensely
European because he belonged to the fronder of Europe and was aware
of a threat The threat also beckoned to him. He refused, but not
without a struggle.
No, other writer, not even Conrad, is more representative of the
Western consciousness and conscience in relation to the non-Western
world. The inner drama of his work is the development of this relation,
under increasing pressure and in increasing anguish.' 95
Having shrewdly and even mercilessly exposed the connections between
Camus’s most famous novels and the colonial situation in Algeria, O’Brien
lets him off the hook. There is a subtle act of transcendence in O’Brien’s
notion of Camus as someone who belonged “to the frontier of Europe,”
when anyone who knows anything about France, Algeria, and Camus —
O’Brien certainly knows a great deal — would not characterize the colonial
tie as one between Europe and its frontier. Similarly Conrad and Camus are
not merely representative of so relatively weightless a thing as “Western
consciousness” but rather of Western dominance in the non-European world.
Conrad makes this abstract point with unerring power in his essay “Geogra-
phy and Some Explorers,” where he celebrates British exploration of the
Arctic and then concludes with an example of his own “militant geography,”
the way, he says, by “putting my finger on a spot in the very middle of the
then white heart of Africa, I declared that some day I would go there.” 196
Later of course he does go there, and rehabilitates the gesture in Heart of
Darkness.
The Western colonialism that O’Brien and Conrad are at such pains to
describe is first a penetration beyond the European frontier and into the heart
of another geographical entity, and second, it is specific not to an ahistorical
“Western consciousness ... in relation to the non-Western world” (most
African or Indian natives considered their burdens as having less to do with
“Western consciousness” than with specific colonial practices like slavery,
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
land expropriation, murderous armed force) but to a laboriously constructed
relationship in which France and Britain called themselves “the West”
vis-a-vis subservient, lesser peoples in a largely underdeveloped and inert
“non-Western world.” 197
The elision and compression in O’Brien’s otherwise tough-minded analy-
sis of Camus come as he deals with Camus as individual artist, anguished
over difficult choices. Unlike Sartre and Jeanson, for whom, according to
O’Brien, the choice to oppose French policy during the Algerian War was
fairly easy, Camus was born and brought up in French Algeria, his family
remained there after he began to live in France, and his involvement in the
struggle with the FLN was a matter of life and death. One can certainly
agree with this much of O’Brien’s claim. What is less easy to accept is how
O’Brien elevates Camus’s difficulties to the symbolic rank of “Western
consciousness,” a receptacle emptied of all but its capacity for sentience and
reflection.
O’Brien further rescues Camus from the embarrassment he had put him
in by stressing the privilege of his individual experience. With this tactic we
are likely to have some sympathy, for whatever the unfortunate collective
nature of French colen behavior in Algeria, there is no reason to burden
Camus with it; his entirely French upbringing in Algeria (well described
in Herbert Lottman’s biography) 198 did not prevent him from producing
a famous pre-war report on the miseries of the place, most of them due
to French colonialism. 199 Here then is a moral man in an immoral situa-
tion. And what Camus focusses on is the individual in a social setting;
this is as true of L'Etranger as it is of La Peste and La Chute. He prizes self-
recognition, disillusioned maturity, and moral steadfastness in the midst
of a bad situation.
But three methodological points need to be made. The first is to question
and deconstruct Camus’s choice of geographical setting for L’Etranger (1942),
La Peste (1947), and his extremely interesting group of short stories collected
under the tide L’Exil et le royaume (1957). Why was Algeria a setting for
narratives whose main reference (in the case of the first two) has always been
construed as France generally and, more particularly, France under the Nazi
Occupation? O'Brien goes further than most in noting that the choice is not
innocent, that much in the tales (e.g., Meursault’s trial) is either a surrepti-
tious or unconscious justification of French rule or an ideological attempt to
prettify it. 2 " 0 But in trying to establish a continuity between Camus as an
individual artist and French colonialism in Algeria we must ask whether
Camus’s narratives themselves are connected to, and derive advantages
from, earlier and more overtly imperial French narratives. In widening the
historical perspective from Camus as an attractively solitary writer of the
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Camus and the French Imperial Experience 175
1940s and 1970s to include the century-old French presence in Algeria, we
can perhaps better understand not just the form and ideological meaning of
his narratives, but also the degree to which his work inflects, refers to,
consolidates, and renders more precise the nature of the French enterprise
there.
A second methodological point concerns the type of evidence necessary
for this wider optic, and the related question of who does the interpreting.
A European critic of historical bent is likely to believe that Camus repre-
sents the tragically immobilized French consciousness of the European crisis
near one of its great watersheds; although Camus seems to have regarded
colon implantations as rescuable and extendable past i960 (the year of his
death), he was simply wrong historically, since the French ceded possession
of and all claims on Algeria a mere two years later. Insofar as his work clearly
alludes to contemporary Algeria, Camus’s general concern is the actual state
of Franco- Algerian affairs, not their history of dramatic changes in their
long-term destiny. Except occasionally, he usually ignores or overlooks the
history, which an Algerian for whom the French presence was a daily
enactment of power would not do. To an Algerian, therefore, 1962 would
more likely be seen as the end of a long, unhappy epoch in a history that
began when the French arrived in 1850, and as the triumphant inauguration
of a new phase. A correlative way of interpreting Camus’s novels therefore
would be as interventions in the history of French efforts in Algeria, making
and keeping it French, not as novels that tell us about their author’s state of
mind. Camus’s incorporations of and assumptions about Algerian history
would have to be compared with histories written by Algerians after inde-
pendence, in order to get a fuller sense of the contest between Algerian
nationalism and French colonialism. And it would be correct to regard
Camus’s work as affiliated historically both with the French colonial venture
itself (since he assumes it to be immutable) and with outright opposition to
Algerian independence. This Algerian perspective may unblock and release
aspects hidden, taken for granted, or denied by Camus.
Last, there is a crucial methodological value in detail, patience, insistence
where Camus’s highly compressed texts are concerned. The tendency is for
readers to associate Camus’s novels with French novels about France, not
only because of their language and the forms they seem to take over from
such illustrious antecedents as Adolphe and Trois Contes, but also because his
choice of an Algerian locale seems incidental to the pressing moral issues at
hand. Almost half a century after their first appearance, his novels are thus
read as parables of the human condition. True, Meursault kills an Arab, but
this Arab is not named and seems to be without a history, let alone a mother
and father; true also, Arabs die of plague in Oran, but they are not named
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
either, whereas Rieux and Tarrou are pushed forward in the action. One
ought to read the texts for the richness of what is there, we are likely to say,
not for what if anything has been excluded. But 1 want to insist that one finds
in Camus’s novels what they once were thought to have been cleared
of — detail about that very distinctly French imperial conquest begun in 1830,
continuing during Camus’s life, and projecting into the composition of the
texts.
This restorative interpretation is not meant vindictively. Nor do I intend
after the fact to blame Camus for hiding things about Algeria in his fiction
that, for example, in the various pieces collected in the Chroniques algeriennes
he was at pains to explain. What 1 want to do is to see Camus’s fiction as an
element in France’s methodically constructed political geography of Alge-
ria, which took many generations to complete, the better to see it as provid-
ing an arresting account of the political and interpretative contest to
represent, inhabit, and possess the territory itself — at exactly the time that
the British were leaving India. Camus’s writing is informed by an extraor-
dinarily belated, in some ways incapacitated colonial sensibility, which
enacts an imperial gesture within and by means of a form, the realistic novel,
well past its greatest achievements in Europe.
As locus classicus I shall use an episode near the end of “La Femme
adultere” when Janine, the protagonist, leaves her husband’s bedside during
a sleepless night in a small hotel in the Algerian countryside. A formerly
promising law student, he has become a travelling salesman; after a long and
tiring bus journey the couple arrives at their destination, where he makes the
rounds of his various Arab clients. During the tripjanine has been impressed
with the silent passivity and incomprehensibility of the native Algerians;
their presence seems like a barely evident natural fact, scarcely noticed by
her in her emotional trouble. When she leaves the hotel and her sleeping
husband, Janine encounters the night watchman, who speaks to her in
Arabic, a language she appears not to understand. The climax of the story
is a remarkable, almost pantheistic communion she has with the sky and the
desert. Clearly, I think, Camus’s intention is to present the relationship
between woman and geography in sexual terms, as an alternative to her now
nearly dead relationship with her husband; hence the adultery referred to in
the story’s title.
She was turning with them [the drifting stars in a sky “moving in a sort
of slow gyration”], and the apparently stationary progress little by little
identified her with the core of her being, where cold and desire were
now vying with each other. Before her the stars were falling one by one
and being snuffed out among the stones of the desert, and each time
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Camus and the French Imperial Experience
Janine opened a little more to the night Breathing deeply, she forgot
the cold, the dead weight of others, the craziness or stuffiness of life, the
long anguish of living and dying [le poids des etres, la vie demente ou
figee, la longue angoisse de vivre et de mourir]. After so many years of
mad, aimless fleeing from fear, she had come to a stop at last. At the
same time, she seemed to recover her roots and the sap again rose in
her against the parapet as she strained toward the moving sky; she was
merely waiting for her fluttering heart to calm down and establish
silence within her. The last stars of the constellations dropped their
clusters a little lower on the desert horizon and became still. Then, with
unbearable gentleness, the water of night began to fill Janine, drowned
the cold, rose gradually from the hidden core of her being, rising up
even to her mouth full of moans [l’eau de la nuit . . . monta peu a peu
du centre obscur de son 6tre et deborda en flots ininterrompus jusqu’ii
sa bouche pleine de gemissements]. The next moment, the whole sky
stretched over her, fallen on her back on the cold earth. 201
The effect is that of a moment out of time in which Janine escapes the
sordid narrative of her present life and enters the kingdom of the collection’s
title; or as Camus put it in a note he wanted to insert in subsequent editions
of the collection, “au royaume . . . [qui] coincide avec une certaine vie Iibre
et nue que nous avons 4 retrouver pour renaitre enfin” 202 (“the kingdom
. . . [which] coincides with a certain free and bare life and which it is up to
us to re-find in order for us finally to be reborn”). Her past and present drop
away from her, as does the actuality of other beings ( le poids des etres,
symptomatically mistranslated as “the dead weight of other people” by
Justin O’Brien). In this passage Janine “comes to a stop at last,” motionless,
fecund, ready for communion with this piece of sky and desert, where
(echoing Camus’s explanatory note, designed as a later elucidation of the six
stories) the woman — pied noir and colon — discovers her roots. What her real
identity is or may be is judged later in the passage when she achieves what
is an unmistakably sexual climax: Camus speaks here of the “centre obscur
de son etre,” which suggests both her own sense of obscurity and ignorance,
and Camus’s as well. Her specific history as a Frenchwoman in Algeria does
not matter, for she has achieved a superveningly immediate and direct
access to that particular earth and sky.
Each of the stories in L 'Exit et le royaume (with one exception, a garrulous
and unaffecting parable of Parisian artistic life) deals with the exile of people
with a non-European history (four tales are set in Algeria, one each in Paris
and in Brazil) that is deeply, even threateningly unpleasant, who are trying
precariously to achieve a moment of rest, idyllic detachment, poetic self-
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realization. Only in “La Femme adultere” and in the story set in Brazil,
where through sacrifice and commitment a European is received by natives
into their circle of intimacy as a substitute for a dead native, is there any
suggestion that Camus allowed himself to believe that Europeans might
achieve sustained and satisfactory identification with the overseas territory.
In “Le Ren6gat” a missionary is captured by an outcast southern Algerian
tribe, has his tongue torn out (an eerie parallel with Paul Bowles’s story “A
Distant Episode”), and becomes a super- zealous partisan of the tribe, joining
in an ambush of French forces. This is as if to say that going native can only
be the result of mutilation, which produces a diseased, ultimately unaccept-
able loss of identity.
A matter of months separates this relatively late (1957) book of stories (the
individual publication of each preceded and followed the appearance of La
Chute in 19yd) from the contents of the later pieces in Camus’s Chroniques
algeriennes, published in 1958. Although passages in L’Exil go back to the
earlier lyricism and controlled nostalgia of Noces, one of Camus’s few atmo-
spheric works about life in Algeria, the stories are filled with anxiety about
the gathering crisis. We should bear in mind that the Algerian Revolution
was officially announced and launched on November 1, 1974; the Setif mas-
sacres by French troops of Algerian civilians had occurred in May 1945, and
the years before that, when Camus was working on L'Etranger. were filled
with numerous events punctuating Algerian nationalism’s long and bloody
resistance to the French. Even though Camus grew up in Algeria as a French
youth, according to all his biographers, he was always surrounded by the
signs of Franco-Algerian struggle, most of which he seems to have either
evaded or, in his last years, openly translated into the language, imagery, and
geographical apprehension of a singular French will contesting Algeria
against its native Muslim inhabitants. In 195-7 Franyois Mitterrand’s book
Presence fran<;aise et abandon stated flatly, “Sans Affique, il n’y aura pas l’his-
toire de France au XXIe sidcle " Z03
To situate Camus contraf untally in most (as opposed to a small part) of his
actual history, one must be alert to his true French antecedents, as well as
the work of post-independence Algerian novelists, historians, sociologists,
political scientists. There remains today a readily decipherable (and persis-
tent) Eurocentric tradition of interpretatively blocking off what Camus (and
Mitterrand) blocked off about Algeria, what he and his fictional characters
blocked off. When in the last years of his life Camus publicly and even
vehemently opposed the nationalist demands put forward for Algerian inde-
pendence, he did so in the same way he had represented Algeria from the
beginning of his artistic career, although now his words resonate depress-
ingly with the accents of official Anglo-French Suez rhetoric. His comments
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Camus and the French Imperial Experience 179
about “Colonel Nasser,” about Arab and Muslim imperialism, are familiar
to us, but the one uncompromisingly severe political statement about Alge-
ria he makes in the text appears as an unadorned political summary of his
previous writing;
en ce qui concerne l’Alg6rie, l’independence nationale est une formule
purement passionnelle. II n'y a jamais eu encore de nation algdrienne.
Lesjuifs, les Turcs, les Grecs, les Italiens, les Berberes, auraient autant
de droit £ reclamer la direction de cette nation vimielle. Actuellement,
les Arabes ne forment pas a eux seuls toute l’AIgerie. L’importance et
l’anciennete du peuplement franfais, en particulier, suffisent £ cr£er un
probl£me qui ne peut se comparer £ rien dans l’histoire. Les Franfais
d’Algerie sont, eux aussie, et au sens fort du terme, des indigenes. II faut
ajouter qu’une Alg£rie purement arabe ne pourrait accdder a Fin-
dependence economique sans laquelle l’independence politique n’est
qu’un leurre. Si insuffisant que soit Feffort fran9ais, il est d’une telle
envergure qu’aucun pays, £ l'heure actuelle, ne consentirait & le pren-
dre, en charge.” 204
(As far as Algeria is concerned, national independence is a formula
driven by nothing other than passion. There has never yet been an
Algerian nation. Thejews, Turks, Greeks, Italians, or Berbers would be
as entitled to claim the leadership of this potential nation. As things
stand, the Arabs alone do not comprise the whole of Algeria. The size
and duration of the French settlement, in particular, are enough to
create a problem that cannot be compared to anything else in history.
The F rench of Algeria are also natives, in the strong sense of the word.
Moreover, a purely Arab Algeria could not achieve that economic
independence without which political independence is nothing but an
illusion. However inadequate the French effort has been, it is of such
proportions that no other country would today agree to take over the
responsibility.)
The irony is that wherever in his novels or descriptive pieces Camus tells
a story, the French presence in Algeria is rendered either as outside narra-
tive, an essence subject to neither time nor interpretation (like Janine), or as
the only history worth being narrated as history. (How different in attitude
and tone is Pierre Bourdieu’s Sociologie de I'AlgMe, also published in 1958,
whose analysis refutes Camus’s jejune formulae and speaks forthrightly of
colonial war as the result of rwo societies in conflict) Camus’s obduracy
accounts for the blankness and absence of background in the Arab killed by
Meursault; hence also the sense of devastation in Oran that is implicitly
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meant to express not mainly the Arab deaths (which, after all, are the ones
that matter demographically) but French consciousness.
It is accurate to say, therefore, that Camus’s narratives lay severe and
ontologically prior claims to Algeria’s geography. For anyone who has even
a cursory acquaintance with the extended French colonial venture there,
these claims are as preposterously anomalous as the declaration in March
1938 by French Minster Chautemps that Arabic was “a foreign language” in
Algeria. They are not Camus’s alone, although he gave them a semi-trans-
parent and lasting currency. He inherits and uncritically accepts them as
conventions shaped in the long tradition of colonial writing on Algeria,
forgotten today or unacknowledged by his readers and critics, most of whom
find it easier to interpret his work as being about “the human condition.”
An excellent index of how many assumptions about French colonies
Camus’s readers and critics share is given in a remarkable survey of French
schoolbooks from World War One to the period right after World War Two
by Manuela Semidei. Her findings show a steadily mounting insistence on
France’s colonial role after World War One, the “glorious episodes” in its
history as “a world power,” as well as lyrical descriptions of France’s colonial
achievements, its establishment of peace and prosperity, the various schools
and hospitals benefitting the natives, and so forth; occasional references are
made to the use of violence, but these are overshadowed by France’s won-
derful overall aim to eliminate slavery and despotism, replace them with
peace and prosperity. North Africa figures prominently, but there is never
any acknowledgement, according to Semidei, that the colonies might
become independent; nationalistic movements of the 1930s are “difficulties”
rather than serious challenges.
Semidei notes that these interwar school texts favorably contrast France’s
superior colonial rule with Britain’s, suggesting that French dominions are
ruled without the prejudice and racialism of their British counterparts. By
the 1930s this motif is endlessly repeated. When references are made to
violence in Algeria, for example, they are couched in such a way as to render
French forces having to take such disagreeable measures because of the
natives’ “ardeur religieuse et par 1 ’attrait du pillage.” 205 Now, however,
Algeria has become “a new France”: prosperous, full of excellent schools,
hospitals, and roads. Even after independence, France’s colonial history is
seen as essentially constructive, laying the foundation for “fraternal” links
between it and its former colonies.
Just because only one side of a contest appears relevant to a French
audience, or because the full dynamic of colonial implantation and native
resistance embarrassingly detracts from the attractive humanism of a major
European tradition is no reason to go along with this interpretative current,
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Camus and the French Imperial Experience 181
or to accept the constructions and ideological images. 1 would go so far as
to say that because Camus’s most famous fiction incorporates, intransigently
recapitulates, and in many ways depends on a massive French discourse on
Algeria, one that belongs to the language of French imperial attitudes and
geographical reference, his work is more, not less interesting. His clean style,
the anguished moral dilemmas he lays bare, the harrowing personal fates of
his characters, which he treats with such fineness and regulated irony —
all these draw on and in fact revive the history of French domination in
Algeria, with a circumspect precision and a remarkable lack of remorse or
compassion.
Once again the interrelationship between geography and the political
contest must be reanimated exacdy where, in the novels, Camus covers it
with a superstructure celebrated by Sartre as providing “a climate of the
absurd.” 206 Both L'Etranger and La Peste are about the deaths of Arabs, deaths
that highlight and silently inform the French characters’ difficulties of con-
science and reflection. Moreover, the structure of civil society so vividly
presented — the municipality, the legal apparatus, hospitals, restaurants,
clubs, entertainments, schools — is French, although in the main it adminis-
ters the non-French population. The correspondence between how Camus
writes about this and how the French schoolbooks do is arresting: the novels
and short stories narrate the result of a victory won over a pacified, deci-
mated Muslim population whose rights to the land have been severely
curtailed. In thus confirming and consolidating French priority, Camus
neither disputes nor dissents from the campaign for sovereignty waged
against Algerian Muslims for over a hundred years.
At the center of the contest is the military struggle, whose first great
protagonists are Marshall Theodore Bugeaud and the Emir Abdel Kader,
the one a ferocious martinet whose patriarchal severity toward the Algerian
natives begins in 1836 as an effort at discipline and ends a decade or so later
with a policy of genocide and massive territorial expropriation; the other is
a Sufi mystic and relentless guerilla fighter, endlessly regrouping, reforming,
rededicating his troops against a stronger, more modem invading enemy. To
read the documents of the time — whether Bugeaud’s letters, proclamations,
and dispatches (compiled and published at about the same time as L'Etran -
ger), or a recent edition of Abdel Qader’s Sufi poetry (edited and translated
into French by Michel Chodkiewicz), 207 or a remarkable portrait of the
psychology of the conquest reconstructed from French diaries and letters
of the 1830s and 1840s by Mostafa Lacheraf, senior member of the FLN
and post-independence professor at the University of Algiers 208 — is to per-
ceive the dynamic that makes Camus’s diminishment of the Arab presence
inevitable.
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The core of French military policy as Bugeaud and his officers articulated
it was the razzia, or punitive raid on Algerians’ villages, their homes, har-
vests, women and children. “The Arabs,” said Bugeaud, “must be prevented
from sowing, from harvesting, and from pasturing their flocks.” 209 Lacheraf
gives a sampling of the poetic exhilaration recorded time after time by the
French officers at their work, their sense that here at last was an opportunity
for guerre a outrance beyond all morality or need. General Changarnier, for
instance, describes a pleasant distraction vouchsafed his troops in raiding
peaceful villages; this type of activity is taught by the scriptures, he says, in
which Joshua and other great leaders conducted “de bien terribles razzias','
and were blessed by God. Ruin, total destruction, uncompromising brutality
are condoned not only because legitimized by God but because, in words
echoed and re-echoed from Bugeaud to Salan, “les Arabes ne comprennent
que la force brutale.” 210
Lacheraf comments that the French military effort in the first decades
went well beyond its object — the suppression of Algerian resistance — and
attained the absolute status of an ideal. 211 Its other side, as expressed with
tireless zeal by Bugeaud himself, was colonization. Toward the end of his
stay in Algeria, he is constandy exasperated by the way in which European
civilian emigrants are using up the resources of Algeria without restraint or
reason; leave colonization to the military, he writes in his letters, but to no
avail. 212
As it happens, one of the quiet themes running through French fiction
from Balzac to Psichari and Loti is precisely this abuse of Algeria and the
scandals deriving from shady financial schemes operated by unscrupulous
individuals for whom the openness of. the place permitted nearly every
conceivable thing to be done if profit could be promised or expected.
Unforgettable portraits of this state of affairs can be found in Daudet’s
Tartarin de Tarascoti and Maupassant’s Bel-Ami (both of which are referred
to in Martine Loutfi’s perspicacious Litterature et colonialisme ). 213
The destruction wrought upon Algeria by the French was systematic on
the one hand, and constitutive of a new French polity on the other. About
this no contemporary witness between 1840 and 1870 was in doubt. Some, like
Tocqueville, who sternly criticized American policy toward Blacks and
native Indians, believed that the advance of European civilization neces-
sitated inflicting cruelties on the Muslim indigenes: in his view, total conquest
became equivalent to French greatness. He considered Islam synonymous
with “polygamy, the isolation of women, the absence of all political life, a
tyrannical and omnipresent government which forces men to conceal them-
selves and to seek all their satisfactions in family life.” 214 And because he
thought the natives were nomadic, he believed “that all means of desolating
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Camus and the French Imperial Experience 183
these tribes ought to be used. 1 make an exception only in case of what is
interdicted by international law and that of humanity.” But, as Melvin
Richter comments, Tocqueville said nothing “in 1846 when it was revealed
that hundreds of Arabs had been smoked to death in the course of the razzias
he had approved for their humane quality.” 215 “Unfortunate necessities,”
Tocqueville thought, but nowhere near as important as the “good govern-
ment” owed the “half-civilized” Muslims by French government.
To today’s leading North African historian, Abdullah Laroui, French
colonial policy intended nothing less than to destroy the Algerian state, such
as it was. Clearly Camus’s declaration that an Algerian nation never existed
presumed that the ravages of French policy had wiped the slate clean.
Nevertheless, as I have been saying, post-colonial events impose upon us
both a longer narrative and a more inclusive and demystifying interpreta-
tion. Laroui says:
The history of Algeria from 1830 to 1870 is made up of pretenses: the
colons who allegedly wished to transform the Algerians into men like
themselves, when in reality their only desire was to transform the soil
of Algeria into French soil; the military, who supposedly respected the
local traditions and way of life, whereas in reality their only interest
was to govern with the least possible effort; the claim of Napoleon III
that he was building an Arab kingdom, whereas his central ideas were
the “Americanization” of the French economy and the French coloni-
zation of Algeria. 214
When he arrives in Algeria in 1872, Daudet’s Tartarin sees few traces of “the
Orient” that had been promised him, and finds himself instead in an overseas
copy of his native Tarascon. For writers like Segalen and Gide, Algeria is
an exotic locale in which their own spiritual problems — like Janine’s — can
be addressed and therapeutically treated. Scant attention is paid to the
natives, whose purpose is routinely to provide transient thrills or opportuni-
ties for exercises of will — not only Michel in L 'Immoraliste but also Malraux’s
protagonist Perken in the Cambodian setting of La Voieroyale. Differences in
French representations of Algeria, whether they are the crude harem post-
cards studied so memorably by Malek Alloula, 217 or the sophisticated an-
thropological constructions unearthed by Fanny Colonna and Claude
Brahimi, 218 or the impressive narrative structures of which Camus’s works
furnish so important an example, can all be traced back to the geographical
morte-main of French colonial practice.
How deeply felt, consistently replenished, incorporated, and institution-
alized an enterprise is French discourse we can further discover in early-
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twentieth-century works of geography and colonial thought. Albert Sarraut’s
Grandeur et servitude coloniales states no less a goal for colonialism than the
biological unity of mankind, “la solidarity humaine.” Races incapable of
utilizing their resources (e.g., natives in France’s overseas territories) are to
be brought back to the human family; “c’est la pour le colonisateur, la
contre-partie formelle de la prise de possession; elle enleve a son acte le
caractere de spoliation; elle en fait une creation de droit humain” 21 * (“Here,
for the colonizer, is the formal counterpart of the act of possession; it
removes from the act its character of plunder and makes it a creation of
human law”). In his classic La Politique coloniale et le portage du tetre aux XIXe
et XXe siecles, Georges Hardy ventures to argue that the assimilation of
colonies to France “a fait jaillir des sources d’inspiration et non seulement
provoque l’apparition d’innombrables romans coloniaux, mais encore ouvert
les esprits a la diversite des formes morales et mentales, incite les ecrivains
i des genres inedits d’exploration psychologique” 220 (“caused inspiration to
burst forth and not only led to the appearance of numerous colonial novels
but also opened minds to the diversity of moral and mental forms, encourag-
ing writers to adopt new modes of psychological exploration”). Hardy’s book
was published in 1937; Rector of the Academy of Algiers, he was also honor-
ary director of the Ecole Coloniale and, in his uncannily declarative phrases,
an immediate forerunner of Camus.
Camus’s novels and stories thus very precisely distill the traditions, idi-
oms, and discursive strategies of France’s appropriation of Algeria. He gives
its most exquisite articulation, its final evolution to this massive “structure
of feeling.” But to discern this structure, we must consider Camus’s works
as a metropolitan transfiguration of the colonial dilemma: they represent the
colon writing for a French audience whose personal history is tied irrevoca-
bly to this southern department of France; a history taking place anywhere
else is unintelligible. Yet the ceremonies of bonding with the territory —
enacted by Meursault in Algiers, Tarrou and Rieux enfolded within the
walls of Oran.Janine during a Saharan vigil — ironically stimulate queries in
the reader about the need for such affirmations. When the violence of the
French past is thus inadvertently recalled, these ceremonies become fore-
shortened, highly compressed commemorations of survival, that of a com-
munity with nowhere to go.
Meursault’s predicament is more radical than the others’. For even if we
assume that the falsely constituted law court (as Conor Cruise O’Brien
rightly says, a most unlikely place to try a Frenchman for killing an Arab)
has a continuing existence, Meursault himself understands the finality; at last
he can experience relief and defiance together “J'avais eu raison, j’avais
encore raison, j’avais toujours raison, j’avais vbcu de telle fa^on et j’aurais pu
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Camus and the French Imperial Experience 185
vivre de telle autre. J’avais fait ceci et je n’avais pas fait cela. Je n’avais pas
fait cette autre. Et apr£s? C’6tait comme si j’avais attendu pendant tout le
temps cette minute et cette petite aube ou je serais justifie ” 221 (“I had been
right. I was again right, I was still right. I had lived like this and could have
lived like that. I had done this and had not done that. I had not done that
other thing. And so? It was as if I had all along been waiting for this moment
and this daybreak when I would be vindicated”)
There are no choices left here, no alternatives, no humane substitutes.
The colon embodies both the real human effort his community contributed
and the obstacle of refusing to give up a systematically unjust political
system. The deeply conflicted strength of Meursault’s suicidal self-acknowl-
edgement can have emerged only out of that specific history and in that
specific community. At the end, he accepts what he is and yet also under-
stands why his mother, confined to an old persons’ home, has decided to
remarry: “elle avait joue i recommencer Si prks de la mort, maman devait
s’y sentir libre et pr£te a tout revivre.” 222 (“She had played at starting again.
. . . So close to death, Mother had to feel free and ready to live everything
again.”) We have done what we have done here, and so let us do it again.
This tragically unsentimental obduracy turns into the unflinching human
capacity for renewed generation and regeneration. Camus’s readers have
imputed to L’Etranger the universality of a liberated existential humanity
facing cosmic indifference and human cruelty with impudent stoicism.
To resituate L’Etranger in the geographical nexus from which its narrative
trajectory emerges is to interpret it as a heightened form of historical
experience. Like Orwell’s work and status in England, Camus’s plain style
and unadorned reporting of social situations conceal rivetingly complex
contradictions, contradictions unresolvable by rendering, as critics have
done, his feelings of loyalty to French Algeria as a parable of the human
condition. This is what his social and literary reputation still depends on. Yet
because there was always the more difficult and challenging alternative of
first judging, then refusing France’s territorial seizure and political sover-
eignty, blocking as it did a compassionate, shared understanding of Algerian
nationalism, Camus’s limitations seem unacceptably paralyzing. Counter-
poised with the decolonizing literature of the time, whether French or
Arab — Germaine Tillion, Kateb Yacine, Fanon, or Genet — Camus’s narra-
tives have a negative vitality, in which the tragic human seriousness of the
colonial effort achieves its last great clarification before ruin overtakes it
They express a waste and sadness we have still not completely understood
or recovered from.
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( VIII )
A Note on Modernism
N o vision, any more than any social system, has total hegemony over
its domain. In studying cultural texts that happily co-existed with or
lent support to the global enterprises of European and American empire, one
is not indicting them wholesale or suggesting that they are less interesting
as art for being in complex ways part of the imperialist undertaking. My
account here speaks of largely unopposed and undeterred will to overseas
dominion, not of a completely unopposed one. We ought to be impressed with
how, by the end of the nineteenth century, colonial lobbies in Europe, for
instance, could whether by cabal or by popular support press the nation into
more scrambling for land and more natives being compelled into imperial
service, with little at home to stop or inhibit the process. Yet there are always
resistances, however ineffective. Imperialism not only is a relationship of
domination but also is committed to a specific ideology of expansion; as
Seeley to his credit recognized, expansion was more than an inclination, “it
is evidently the great fact of modem English history.”** 3 Admiral Mahan in
the United States and Leroy-Beaulieu in France made similar claims. And
expansion could occur with such stunning results only because there was
power — power military, economic, political, and cultural — enough for the
task in Europe and America.
Once the basic fact of European and Western control over the non-
Western world was taken as fact, as inevitable, much complex and, I would
add, antinomian cultural discussion began to occur with noticeably greater
frequency. This did not immediately disturb the sense of sovereign perma-
nence and irreversible presence, but it did lead to an extremely important
mode of cultural practice in Western society, which played an interesting
part in the development of anti-imperialist resistance in the colonies.
Readers of Albert O, Hirschman’s The Passions and the Interests will recall
that he describes the intellectual debate accompanying European economic
expansion as proceeding from — and then consolidating — the argument that
human passion should give way to interests as a method for governing the
world. When this argument had triumphed, by the late eighteenth century,
it became a target of opportunity for those Romantics who saw in an
interest-centered world a symbol for the dull, uninteresting, and selfish
situation they had inherited from prior generations.** 4
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A Note on Modernism
187
Let us extend Hirschman’s method to the question of imperialism. By the
late nineteenth century England’s empire was pre-eminent in the world and
the cultural argument for empire was triumphing. The empire was a real
thing, after all, and, as Seeley told his audience, “We in Europe ... are pretty
well agreed that the treasure of truth which forms the nucleus of the
civilization of the West is incomparably more sterling not only than the
Brahmanic mysticism with which it has to contend, but even than the Roman
enlightenment which the old Empire transmitted to the nations of
Europe .” 125
At the center of this remarkably confident statement are two somewhat
recalcitrant realities that Seeley deftly incorporates and also dismisses: one
is the contending native (the Brahmanic mystic himself), the second is the
existence of other empires, past as well as present. In both, Seeley allusively
records the paradoxical consequences of imperialism’s triumphs and then
passes on to other subjects. For once imperialism, like the doctrine of
interests, had become the settled norm in political ideas about Europe’s
world-wide destiny, then, ironically, the allure of its opponents, the intransi-
gence of its subjugated classes, the resistance to its irresistible sway were
clarified and heightened. Seeley deals with these matters as a realist, not as
a poet who might wish to make of the one a noble or romantic presence, or
of the other a base and immoral competitor. Nor does he attempt a revision-
ist account in the manner of Hobson (whose book on imperialism is a
dissenting counterpart).
Let me now jump abruptly back to the realistic novel with which I have
been much concerned in this chapter. Its central theme by the late nine-
teenth century was disenchantment, or what Lukacs called ironic disillusion.
Tragically or sometimes comically blocked protagonists are brusquely and
often rudely awakened by the novel’s action to the discrepancy between
their illusory expectations and the social realities. Hardy’s Jude, George
Eliot’s Dorothea, Flaubert’s Frederic, Zola’s Nana, Butler’s Ernest, James’s
Isabel, Gissing’s Reardon, Meredith's Feverel — the list is very long. Into this
narrative of loss and disablement is gradually interjected an alternative — not
only the novel of frank exoticism and confident empire, but travel narratives,
works of colonial exploration and scholarship, memoirs, experience and
expertise. In Dr. Livingstone’s personal narratives and Haggard’s She, Kip-
ling’s Raj, Loti’s Le Roman d'un Spabi, and most of Jules Verne’s adventures,
we discern a new narrative progression and triumphalism. Almost without
exception these narratives, and literally hundreds like them based on the
exhilaration and interest of adventure in the colonial world, far from casting
doubt on the imperial undertaking, serve to confirm and celebrate its suc-
cess. Explorers find what they are looking for, adventurers return home safe
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and wealthier, and even the chastened Kim is drafted into the Great Game.
As against this optimism, affirmation, and serene confidence, Conrad’s
narratives — to which I have so often referred because more than anyone
else he tackled the subtle cultural reinforcements and manifestations of
empire — radiate an extreme, unsettling anxiety; they react to the triumph
of empire the way Hirschman says that romantics responded to the tri-
umph of an interest-centered view of the world. Conrad’s tales and novels
in one sense reproduce the aggressive contours of the high imperialist under-
taking, but in another sense they are infected with the easily recognizable,
ironic awareness of the post-realist modernist sensibility. Conrad, Forster,
Malraux, T. E. Lawrence take narrative from the triumphalist experience
of imperialism into the extremes of self-consciousness, discontinuity, self-
referentiality, and corrosive irony, whose formal patterns we have come to
recognize as the hallmarks of modernist culture, a culture that also embraces
the major work of Joyce, T. S. Eliot, Proust, Mann, and Yeats. I would like
to suggest that many of the most prominent characteristics of modernist
culture, which we have tended to derive from purely internal dynamics in
Western society and culture, include a response to the external pressures on
culture from the imperium. Certainly this is true of Conrad’s entire oeuvre, and
it is also true of Forster’s, T. E. Lawrence’s, Malraux’s; in different ways, the
impingements of empire on an Irish sensibility are registered in Yeats and
Joyce, those on American expatriates in the work of Eliot and Pound.
In Mann’s great fable of the alliance between creativity and disease —
Death in Venice — the plague that infects Europe is Asiatic in origin; the
combination of dread and promise, of degeneration and desire, so effectively
rendered by Aschenbach’s psychology is Mann’s way of suggesting, I be-
lieve, that Europe, its art, mind, monuments, is no longer invulnerable, no
longer able to ignore its ties to its overseas domains. Similarly Joyce, for
whom the Irish nationalist and intellectual Stephen Dedalus is ironically
fortified not by Irish Catholic comrades but by the wandering Jew Leopold
Bloom, whose, exoticism and cosmopolitan skills undercut the morbid so-
lemnity of Stephen’s rebellion. Like the fascinating inverts of Proust’s novel,
Bloom testifies to a new presence within Europe, a presence rather strikingly
described in terms unmistakably taken from the exotic annals of overseas
discovery, conquest, vision. Only now instead of being out there, they are here,
as troubling as the primitive rhythms of the Sacre du printemps or the African
icons in Picasso’s art.
The formal dislocations and displacements in modernist culture, and most
strikingly its pervasive irony, are influenced by precisely those two disturb-
ing factors Seeley mentions as a consequence of imperialism; the contending
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A Note on Modernism
189
native and the fact of other empires. Along with “the old men” who ruin and
hijack his great adventure, Lawrence’s Arabs in The Seven Pillars of Wisdom
require his sad and dissatisfied acknowledgement, just as imperial France
and Turkey do; in A Passage to India, it is Forster’s great achievement to show
with remarkable precision (and discomfort) how the moral drama of con-
temporary Indian mysticism and nationalism — Godbole and Aziz — unfolds
against the older clash between the British and Mogul empires. In Loti’s
L'Inde (sans les Anglais) we read a travel narrative based on a journey across
India in which the ruling English are deliberately, even spitefully, not once
mentioned , 226 as if to suggest that only the natives are to be seen, whereas
of course India was an exclusively British (and certainly not a French)
possession.
I venture the suggestion that when European culture finally began to take
due account of imperial “delusions and discoveries” — in Benita Parry’s fine
phrase for the Anglo-Indian cultural encounter 227 — it did so not opposition-
ally but ironically, and with a desperate attempt at a new inclusiveness. It
was as if having for centuries comprehended empire as a fact of national
desriny to be either taken for granted or celebrated, consolidated, and
enhanced, members of the dominant European cultures now began to look
abroad with the skepticism and confusion of people surprised, perhaps even
shocked by what they saw. Cultural texts imported the foreign into Europe
in ways that very clearly bear the mark of the imperial enterprise, of
explorers and ethnographers, geologists and geographers, merchants and
soldiers. At first they stimulated the interest of European audiences; by the
beginning of the twentieth century, they were used to convey an ironic sense
of how vulnerable Europe was, and how — in Conrad’s great phrase — “this
also has been one of the dark places on the earth.”
To deal with this, a new encyclopedic form became necessary, one that
had three distinctive features. First was a circularity of structure, inclusive
and open at the same time: Ulysses, Heart of Darkness, A la recherche , The Waste
Land, Cantos, To the Lighthouse. Second was a novelty based almost entirely
on the reformulation of old, even outdated fragments drawn self-consciously
from disparate locations, sources, cultures: the hallmark of modernist form
is the strange juxtaposition of comic and tragic, high and low, commonplace
and exotic, familiar and alien whose most ingenious resolution is Joyce’s
fusing of the Odyssey with the Wandering Jew, advertising and Virgil (or
Dante), perfect symmetry and the salesman’s catalogue. Third is the irony
of a form that draws attention to itself as substituting art and its creations for
the once-possible synthesis of the world empires. When you can no longer
assume that Britannia will rule the waves forever, you have to reconceive
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CONSOLIDATED VISION
reality as something that can be held together by you the artist, in history
rather than in geography. Spatiality becomes, ironically, the characteristic of
an aesthetic rather than of political domination, as more and more regions — -
from India to Africa to the Caribbean — challenge the classical empires and
their cultures.
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CHAPTER THREE
RESISTANCE AND
OPPOSITION
lie moi de tes vastes bras a I'argiie lumineuse
Aim£ C aire, Cabin d'un retour au pays natal
( I )
There Are Two Sides
A standard topic in the history of ideas and the study of cultures is that
constellation of relationships that can be collected under the general
heading of “influence.” I began this book by invoking Eliot’s famous essay
“Tradition and the Individual Talent” as a way of introducing the matter of
influence in its most basic, even abstract form: the connection between the
present and the pastness (or not) of the past, a connection which as Eliot
discusses it includes the relationship between an individual writer and the
tradition of which he or she is a part. I suggested that studying the relation-
ship between the “West” and its dominated cultural “others” is not just a
way of understanding an unequal relationship between unequal interlocu-
tors, but also a point of entry into studying the formation and meaning of
Western cultural practices themselves. And the persistent disparity in power
between the West and non-West must be taken into account if we are
accurately to understand cultural forms like that of the novel, of ethno-
graphic and historical discourse, certain kinds of poetry and opera, where
allusions to and structures based on this disparity abound. I went on to argue
that when supposedly otherwise neutral departments of culture like litera-
ture and critical theory converge upon the weaker or subordinate culture
and interpret it with ideas of unchanging non-European and European
essences, narratives about geographical possession, and images of legitimacy
and redemption, the striking consequence has been to disguise the power
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
situation and to conceal how much the experience of the stronger party
overlaps with and, strangely, depends on the weaker.
An instance of this is found in Gide’s L’lmmoraliste (1902), usually read as
the story of a man who comes to terms with his eccentric sexuality by
allowing it to strip him not only of his wife, Marceline, and career, but
paradoxically of his will. Michel is a philologist whose academic research
into Europe’s barbarian past reveals to him his own suppressed instincts,
longings, proclivities. As with Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice, the setting is
representative of an exotic locale at or just beyond the boundaries of Europe;
a major locale for the action of L'lmmoraliste is French Algeria, a place of
deserts, languorous oases, amoral native boys and girls. Michel’s Nietzchean
mentor, M6nalque, is straightforwardly described as a colonial official, and
although he is straight out of an imperial world recognizable to readers of
T. E. Lawrence or Malraux, his sybaritic and epicurean presence is quite
Gidean. Menalque (more than Michel) derives knowledge and also pleasure
from his life of “obscure expeditions,” sensual indulgence, and anti-domestic
freedom. "La vie, le moindre geste de Mdnalque,” reflects Michel, as he
compares his course of academic lectures with the flamboyant imperialist,
“n’etait-il pas plus eloquent mille fois que mon cours?” 1
What first connects the two men, however, is neither ideas nor life
histories but the confessions of Moktir, a native boy in Biskra (to which Gide
returned in book after book), who tells M6nalque how he watched Michel
spying on him in the act of stealing Marceline’s scissors. The homosexual
complicity among the three is an unmistakably hierarchical relationship:
Moktir, the African boy, gives a surreptitious thrill to Michel, his employer,
which in turn is a step along the way to his self-knowledge, in which
M6nalque’s superior insights guide him. What Moktir thinks or feels (which
seems congenitally, if not also racially, mischievous) is far less important
than what Michel and Menalque make of the experience. Gide explicitly
connects Michel’s self-knowledge with his experiences of Algeria, which are
causally related to the death of his wife, his intellectual reorientation, and
his final, rather pathetic bisexual forlornness.
Speaking of French North Africa — it is Tunisia he has in mind — Michel
offers the following aperfus:
This land of pleasure satisfies without calming desire; indeed, every
satisfaction merely exalts it.
A land liberated from works of an. 1 despise those who can acknowl-
edge beauty only when it’s already transcribed, interpreted. One thing
admirable about the Arabs: they live their art, they sing and scatter it
from day to day; they don’t cling to it, they don’t enbalm it in ■works.
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>93
Which is the cause and the effect of the absence of great artists Just
as I was returning to the hofel, I remembered a group of Arabs I had
noticed lying in the open air on the mats of a little cafe. I went and slept
among them. 1 returned covered with vermin. 2
The people of Africa, and especially those Arabs, are just there; they have
no accumulating art or history that is sedimented into works. Were it not for
the European observer who attests to its existence, it would not matter. To
be among those people is pleasurable, but one needs to accept its risks (the
vermin, for example).
L Immoraliste has an additionally problematic dimension in that its first-
person narration — Michel tells his own story — heavily depends on a num-
ber of inclusions he makes: through him come the North Africans, come his
wife and M£nalque. Michel is a prosperous Normandy landowner, a scholar,
and a Protestant — suggesting that Gide intends multiple sides of personal-
ity, able to negotiate the travails of both selfhood and worldliness. All of
these aspects in the final analysis depend on what Michel discovers about
himself in Africa, yet his self-discovery is limited by transitoriness and
transparency, and unvalued. Once again, the narrative has a “structure of
attitude and reference” that entitles the European authorial subject to hold
on to an overseas territory, derive benefits from it, depend on it, but ulti-
mately refuse it autonomy or independence.
Gide is a special case— treating in his North African works relatively
restricted material: Islamic, Arab, homosexual. But although the instance of
a highly individualistic artist, Gide’s relationship to Africa belongs to a
larger formation of European attitudes and practices toward the continent,
out of which emerged what late-twentieth-century critics have called Afri-
canism, or Africanist discourse, a systematic language for dealing with and
studying Africa for the West. 3 Conceptions of primitivism are associated
with it, as well as concepts deriving a special epistemological privilege from
the African provenance, such as tribalism, vitalism, originality. We can see
these obligingly serviceable concepts at work in Conrad and Isak Dinesen,
as well as, later, in the audacious scholarship of Leo Frobenius, the German
anthropologist who claimed to have discovered the perfect order of the
African system, and Placide Tempels, the Belgian missionary whose book
Bantu Philosophy proposed an essentialist (and reductive) vitality at the heart
of African philosophy. So productive and adaptable was this notion of
African identity that it could be used by Western missionaries, then an-
thropologists, then Marxist historians, then, antagonistically, even liberation
movements, as V. Y. Mudimbe has shown in his remarkable The Invention of
Africa (1988), the history' of what he calls an African gnosis A
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The general cultural situation obtaining between the West and its over-
seas imperium until the modem period, especially the period around World
War One, conformed to this kind of pattern. Since my enormous topic can
best be dealt with at this stage by alternating general with very specific and
local studies, my purpose here is to sketch the interacting experience that
links imperializers with the imperialized. The study of the relationship
between culture and imperialism at this quite early stage of development
needs neither simple chronological nor simple anecdotal narrative (a fair
number of these already exist in separate fields), but an attempt at a global-
ized (not total) description. And of course any study of the connection
between culture and empire is itself an integral part of the topic, part of what
George Eliot in another connection called the same embroiled medium —
rather than a discourse written from a distant, and disengaged perspective.
The emergence of almost a hundred new decolonized post-colonial states
after 194 y is not a neutral fact, but one to which, in discussions of it, scholars,
historians, activists have been either for or against.
Exactly as in its triumphant period imperialism tended to license only a
cultural discourse that was formulated from within it, today post-imperial-
ism has permitted mainly a cultural discourse of suspicion on the part of
formerly colonized peoples, and of theoretical avoidance at most on the part
of metropolitan intellectuals. 1 find myself caught between the two, as many
of us are who were brought up during the period when the classical colonial
empires were dismantled. We belong to the period both of colonialism and
of resistance to it; yet we also belong to a period of surpassing theoretical
elaboration, of the universalizing techniques of deconstruction, structural-
ism, and Lukacsian and Althusserian Marxism. My homemade resolution of
the antitheses between involvement and theory has been a broad perspective
from which one could view both culture and imperialism and from which
the large historical dialectic between one and the other might be observed
even though its myriad details cannot be except occasionally. 1 shall proceed
on the assumption that whereas the whole of a culture is a disjunct one,
many important sectors of it can be apprehended as working contrapuntally
together.
Here I am especially concerned with the extraordinary, almost Coperni-
can change in the relationship between Western culture and the empire
during the early years of this century. It is useful to see this change as similar
in scope and significance to two earlier ones: the rediscovery of Greece
during the humanistic period of the European Renaissance; and the “Orien-
tal Renaissance” — so called by its great modern historian Raymond
Schwab 5 — from the late eighteenth to the middle nineteenth century, when
the cultural riches of India, China, Japan, Persia, and Islam were firmly
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■95
deposited at the heart of European culture. The second, what Schwab calls
Europe’s magnificent appropriation of the Orient — the discoveries of San-
skrit by German and French grammarians, of the great Indian national epics
by English, German, and French poets and artists, of Persian imagery and
Sufi philosophy by many European and even American thinkers from Goe-
the to Emerson — was one of the most splendid episodes in the history of the
human adventure, and a subject sufficient unto itself.
The missing dimension in Schwab’s narrative is the political one, much
sadder and less edifying than the cultural one. As I have argued in Oriental-
ism, the net effect of cultural exchange between partners conscious of in-
equality is that the people suffer. The Greek classics served the Italian,
French, and English humanists without the troublesome interposition of
actual Greeks. Texts by dead people were read, appreciated, and appro-
priated by people who imagined an ideal commonwealth. This is one reason
that scholars rarely speak suspicioualy or disparagingly of the Renaissance.
In modem times, however, thinking about cultural exchange involves think-
ing about domination and forcible appropriation: someone loses, someone
gains. Today, for example, discussions of American history are increasingly
interrogations of that history for what it did to native peoples, immigrant
populations,' oppressed minorities.
But only recently have Westerners become aware that what they have to
say about the history and the cultures of “subordinate” peoples is challenge-
able by the people themselves, people who a few years back were simply
incorporated, culture, land, history, and all, into the great Western empires,
and their disciplinary discourses. (This is not to denigrate the accomplish-
ments of many Western scholars, historians, artists, philosophers, musicians,
and missionaries, whose corporate and individual efforts in making known
the world beyond Europe are a stunning achievement.)
An immense wave of anti-colonial and ultimately anti-imperial activity,
thought, and revision has overtaken the massive edifice of Western empire,
challenging it, to use Gramsci’s vivid metaphor, in a mutual siege. For the
first time Westerners have been required to confront themselves not simply
as the Raj but as representatives of a culture and even of races accused of
crimes — crimes of violence, crimes of suppression, crimes of conscience.
“Today,” says Fanon in The Wretched of the Earth (1961), "the Third World
, . . faces Europe like a colossal mass whose aim should be to try to resolve
the problems to which Europe has not been able to find the answers.” 6 Such
accusations had of course been made before, even by such intrepid Euro-
peans as Samuel Johnson and W. S. Blunt. Right across the non-European
world there had been earlier colonial uprisings, from the San Domingo
revolution and the Abdul Kader insurrection to the 1857 Rebellion, the Orabi
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1 96 RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
Revolt, and the Boxer Rebellion, There had been reprisals, changes of
regime, causes celebres, debates, reforms, and reappraisals. All along, though,
the empires increased in size and profit. The new situation was a sustained
confrontation of, and systematic resistance to, the Empire as West. Long-
simmering resentments against the white man from the Pacific to the Atlan-
tic sprang into fully fledged independence movements. Pan-African and
Pan-Asian militants emerged who could not be stopped.
The militant groups between the two world wars were not clearly or
completely anti-West. Some believed that relief from colonialism could
come by working with Christianity; others believed that westernization was
the solution. In Africa these berween-the-wars efforts were represented,
according to Basil Davidson, by such people as Herbert Macaulay, Leopold
Senghor,J. H. Casely Hayford, Samuel Ahuma; 7 in the Arab world during
this period Saad Zaghloul, Nuri as-Said, Bishara al-Khoury were counter-
parts. Even later revolutionary leaders — Ho Chi Minh in Vietnam, for
example — originally held the view that aspects of Western culture could be
helpful in ending colonialism. But their efforts and ideas received little
response in the metropole, and in time their resistance was transformed.
For if colonialism was a system, as Sartre was to say in one of his post-war
essays, then resistance began to feel systematic too. 8 Someone like Sartre
could say, in the opening sentences of his preface to Fanon’s The Wretched
of the Earth (1961), that the world was really two warring factions, “five
hundred million men and one thousand five hundred million natives. The
former had the Word; the others had the use of it In the colonies the truth
stood naked, but the citizens of the mother country preferred it with clothes
on.” 9 Davidson puts the case for the new African response with his usual
eloquent perspicacity:
History ... is not a calculating machine. It unfolds in the mind and the
imagination and takes body in the multifarious responses of a people’s
culture itself the infinitely subtle mediation of material realities, of
underpinning economic facts, of gritty objectivities. African cultural
responses after 1945 were as varied as one might expect from so many
peoples and perceived interests. But they were above all inspired by a
vivid hope of change, scarcely present before, certainly never before
felt with any such intensity or wide appeal; and they were spoken by
men and women whose hearts beat to a brave music. These were the
responses that moved African history into a new course. 10
The sense for Europeans of a tremendous and disorienting change in
perspective in the West-non-West relationship was entirely new, experi-
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l 97
enced neither in the European Renaissance nor in the “discovery” of the
Orient three centuries later. Think of the differences between Poliziano’s
recovery and editing of Greek classics in the 1460s, or Bopp and Schlegel
reading Sanskrit grammarians in the 1810s, and a French political theorist or
Orientalist reading Fanon during the Algerian War in 1961, or C^saire’s
Discours sur le colonialisme when it appeared in 1955 just after the French
defeat at Dien Bien Phu. Not only is this last unfortunate fellow addressed
by natives while his army is engaged by them, as neither of his predecessors
were, but he is reading a text in the language of Bossuet and Chateaubriand,
using concepts of Hegel, Marx, and Freud to incriminate the very civiliza-
tion producing all of them. Fanon goes still further when he reverses the
hitherto accepted paradigm by which Europe gave the colonies their moder-
nity and argues instead that not only were “the well-being and the progress
of Europe . . . built up with the sweat and the dead bodies of Negroes, Arabs,
Indians, and the yellow races” 11 but “Europe is literally the creation of the
Third World,” 12 a charge to be made again and again by Walter Rodney,
Chinweizu, and others. Concluding this preposterous reordering of things,
we find Sartre echoing Fanon (instead of the other way around) when he
says, “There is nothing more consistent than a racist humanism, since the
European has only been able to become a man through creating slaves and
monsters.” 13
World War One did nothing to lessen the Western hold on colonial
territories, because the West needed those territories to furnish Europe with
manpower and resources for a war of little direct concern for Africans and
Asians. 14 Yet the processes that resulted in independence after World War
Two were already under way. The question of dating the resistance to
imperialism in subject territories is crucial to both sides in how imperialism
is seen. For the successful nationalist parties that led the struggle against the
European powers, legitimacy and cultural primacy depend on their asserting
an unbroken continuity leading to the first warriors who stood against the
intrusive white man. Thus the Algerian National Liberation Front which
inaugurated its insurrection against France in 1954 traced its ancestry to the
Emir Abdel Kader, who fought the French occupation during the 1830s and
1840s. In Guinea and Mali resistance against the French is traced back
generations to Samory and Hajji Omar. 1 * But only occasionally did scribes
of empire recognize the validity of these resistances; as we saw in our
discussion of Kipling, numerous attenuating rationalizations of the native
presence (“they” were really happy until roused by troublemakers, for
example) were preferred to the rather more simple reason for dissatisfaction,
that the natives wished for relief from the European presence in their land.
The debate continues until today among historians in Europe and the
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United States. Were those early “prophets of rebellion,” as Michael Adas has
called them, backward-looking, romantic, and unrealistic people who acted
negatively against the “modernizing” Europeans, 16 or are we to take seri-
ously the statements of their modern heirs — for example, Julius Nyerere and
Nelson Mandela — as to the continuing significance of their early, usually
doomed efforts? Terence Ranger has shown that these are matters not simply
of academic speculation, but of urgent political moment. Many of the resis-
tance movements, for instance, “shaped the environment in which later
politics developed; . . . resistance had profound effects upon white policies
and attitudes; . . . during the course of the resistances, or some of them, types
of political organization or inspiration emerged which looked in important
ways to the future; which in some cases are directly and in others indirectly
linked with later manifestations of African opposition [to European imperi-
alism].” 17 Ranger demonstrates that the intellectual and moral battle over
the continuity and coherence of nationalist resistance to impetialism went
on for dozens of years, and became an organic pan of the imperial experi-
ence. If, as an African or Arab, you choose to remember the Ndebele-Shona
and Orabi uprisings of 1896-97 and 1882, respectively, you honor nationalist
leaderships whose failures enabled later success; it is likely that Europeans
will interpret these uprisings more disparagingly, as the work of cliques, or
of crazy millenarians, and so forth.
Then, stunningly, by and large the entire world was decolonized after
World War Two. Grimal’s study includes a map of the British empire at its
height: it is compelling evidence both of how vast its possessions were and
of how more or less completely it lost them in a matter of years after war’s
end in 1945. John Strachey’s well-known book The End of Empire (1959),
commemorates the loss definitively. From London, British statesmen, sol-
diers, merchants, scholars, educators, missionaries, bureaucrats, and spies
had decisive responsibility for Australia, New Zealand, Hong Kong, New
Guinea, Ceylon, Malaya, all of the Asian subcontinent, most of the Middle
East, all of East Africa from Egypt to South Africa, a big chunk of Central
West Africa (including Nigeria), Guiana, some of the Caribbean islands,
Ireland, and Canada.
Decidedly smaller than Britain’s, France’s empire comprised a mass of
islands in the Pacific and Indian oceans as well as the Caribbean (Madagas-
car, New Caledonia, Tahiti, Guadeloupe, etc.), Guiana, and all of Indochina
(Annan, Cambodia, Cochin China, Laos, and Tonkin); in Africa, France
seriously vied with Britain for supremacy — most of the western half of the
continent from the Mediterranean to the Equator was in French hands, as
well as French Somaliland. In addition, there were Syria and Lebanon,
which, like so many of France’s African and Asian colonies, encroached on
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British routes and territories. Lord Cromer, one of the most famously re-
doubtable of British imperial proconsuls (as he once rather haughtily put it,
“We do not govern Egypt, we only govern the governors of Egypt”), 18 who
had distinguished service in India before he ruled Egypt almost single-
handedly between 1883 and 1907, often spoke irritatedly of the “flighty”
French influence in British colonies.
For these immense territories (and those of Belgium, Holland, Spain,
Portugal, Germany) the metropolitan Western cultures devised huge invest-
ments and strategies. Very few people in Britain or France seemed to think
that anything would change. 1 have tried to show that most cultural forma-
tions presumed the permanent primacy of the imperial power. Still, an
alternative view to imperialism arose, persisted, and eventually prevailed.
By 1950 Indonesia had won its freedom from Holland. In 1947 Britain
handed over India to the Congress Party, and Pakistan immediately split off,
guided byjinnah’s Muslim League. Malaysia, Ceylon, and Burma became
independent, as did the nations of “French” Southeast Asia. All through East,
West, and North Africa, British, French, and Belgian occupations were
terminated, sometimes (as in Algeria) with enormous losses of life and
property. Forty-nine new African states came into existence by 1990. But
none of these struggles took place in a vacuum. As Grimal points out, the
internatioftalized relationship between colonizer and colonized was spurred
by global forces — churches, the United Nations, Marxism, the Soviet Union
and the United States. The anti-imperial struggle, as so many Pan-African,
Pan-Arab, Pan-Asian congresses testified, was universalized, and the rift
between Western (white, European, advanced) and non-Western (colored,
native, underdeveloped) cultures and peoples was dramatized.
Because this redrawing of the world’s map was so dramatic, we have lost
(and perhaps have been encouraged to lose) an accurate historical, let alone
moral sense that even in the contentiousness of struggle, imperialism and its
opponents fought over the same terrain, contested the same history. Cer-
tainly they overlapped where French-educated Algerians or Vietnamese,
British-educated East or West Indians, Arabs, and Africans confronted their
imperial masters. Opposition to empire in London and Paris was affected by
resistance offered in Delhi and Algiers. Although it was not the struggle of
same with same (a standard imperialist misrepresentation has it that exclu-
sively Western ideas of freedom led the fight against colonial rule, which
mischievously overlooks the reserves in Indian and Arab culture that always
resisted imperialism, and claims the fight against imperialism as one of
imperialism’s major triumphs), opponents on the same cultural ground had
fascinating encounters. Without metropolitan doubts and opposition, the
characters, idiom, and very structure of native resistance to imperialism
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would have been different. Here, too, culture is in advance of politics,
military history, or economic process.
This overlapping is not a small or negligible point. Just as culture may
predispose and actively prepare one society for the overseas domination of
another, it may also prepare that society to relinquish or modify the idea of
overseas domination. These changes cannot occur without the willingness of
men and women to resist the pressures of colonial rule, to take up arms, to
project ideas of liberation, and to imagine (as Benedict Anderson has it) a
new national community, to take the final plunge. Nor can they occur unless
either economic or political exhaustion with empire sets in at home, unless
the idea of empire and the cost of colonial rule are challenged publicly,
unless the representations of imperialism begin to lose their justification and
legitimacy, and, finally, unless the rebellious “natives” impress upon the
metropolitan culture the independence and integrity of their own culture,
free from colonial encroachment. But having noted all these prerequisites,
we should acknowledge that, at both ends of the redrawn map, opposition
and resistance to imperialism are articulated together on a largely common
although disputed terrain provided by culture.
What are the cultural grounds on which both natives and liberal Euro-
peans lived and understood each other? How much could they grant each
other? How, within the circle of imperial domination, could they deal with
each other before radical change occurred? Consider first E. M Forster’s A
Passage to India, a novel that surely expresses the author’s affection (some-
times petulant and mystified) for the place. I have always felt that the most
interesting thing about A Passage to India is Forster’s using India to represent
material that according to the canons of the novel form cannot in fact be
represented — vastness, incomprehensible creeds, secret motions, histories,
and social forms. Mrs. Moore especially and Fielding too are clearly meant
to be understood as Europeans who go beyond the anthropomorphic norm
in remaining in that (to them) terrifying new element — in Fielding’s case,
experiencing India’s complexity but then returning to familiar humanism
(following the trial he comes home through Suez and Italy to England, after
having had a shattering presentiment of what India could do to one’s sense
of time and place).
But Forster is too scrupulous an observer of the reality that contains him
to leave it at that. The novel returns to a traditional sense of social propriety
in its last section, where the author deliberately and affirmatively imports
into India the habitual novelistic domestic resolution (marriage and prop-
erty): Fielding marries Mrs. Moore’s daughter. Yet he and Aziz — a Muslim
nationalist — ride together and remain apart “ ‘They didn’t want it,’ they said
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in their hundred voices, ‘No, not yet,’ and the sky said, ‘No, not here.’ ”
There is resolution and union, but neither is complete . 19
If present-day India is neither the place nor the time (Forster’s directions
are careful) for identity, convergence, merger, then for what? The novel
indicates that the political origins of this issue lie in the British presence, yet
it also allows one to experience various as peas of this impasse with a feeling
that the political conflict will simply be resolved in the future Godbole’s and
Aziz’s diametrically different resistances to empire are acknowledged — Aziz
the Muslim nationalist, Godbole the almost surrealistic Hindu — and so is
Fielding’s inherent opposition, though he cannot put his objections to the
iniquities of British rule in political or philosophical terms, and only makes
local objections to local abuses. Benita Parry’s interesting argument in Delu-
sions and Discoveries that Forster resolves the novel positively hinges on
“evanescent hints” given by Forster despite “the total text ”: 20 it is more exact
to say that he intended the gulf between India and Britain to stand, but
allowed intermittent crossings back and forth. Be that as it may, we are
entitled to associate the Indian animosity against British rule that is dis-
played during Aziz’s trial with the emergence of a visible Indian resistance,
which Fielding comes reluctantly to perceive in Aziz, one of whose national-
ist models is Japan. The British club members whose snubs force Fielding
to resign are nervous and downright nasty, and they consider Aziz’s infrac-
tion to be such that any sign of “weakness” is an attack on British rule itself:
these too are indications of a hopeless atmosphere.
Almost by virtue of its liberal, humane espousal of Fielding’s views and
attitudes, A Passage to India is at a loss, partly because Forster’s commitment
to the novel form exposes him to difficulties in India he cannot deal with.
Like Conrad’s Africa, Forster’s India is a locale frequently described as
unapprehendable and too large. Once, when Ronny and Adela are together
early in the novel, they watch a bird disappear into a tree, yet they cannot
identify it since, as Forster adds for their benefit and ours, “nothing in India
is identifiable, the mere asking of a question causes it to disappear or to
merge in something else .” 21 The crux of the novel is therefore the sustained
encounter between the English colonials — “well-developed bodies, fairly
developed minds, and undeveloped hearts” — and India.
As Adela approaches the Marabar Caves, she notes that the train’s
“pomper, pomper,” which accompanied her musing, had a message she
could not fathom.
How could the mind take hold of such a country? Generations of
invaders have tried, but they remain in exile. The important towns they
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build are only retreats, their quarrels the malaise of men who cannot
find their way home. India knows of their trouble. She knows of the
whole world’s trouble to its uttermost depth. She calls “Come” through
her hundred mouths, through objects ridiculous and august But come
to what? She has never defined. She is not a promise, only an appeal. 21
Yet Forster shows how British “officialism” tries to impose sense on India.
There are orders of precedence, clubs with rules, restrictions, military hier-
archies, and, standing above and informing it all, British power. India “is not
a tea-party,” says Ronny Heaslop. “I have never known anything but disaster
result when English people and Indians attempt to be intimate socially.
Intercourse, yes. Courtesy, by all means. Intimacy — never, never.” 23 No
wonder that Dr. Aziz is so surprised when Mrs. Moore takes off her shoes
to enter a mosque, a gesture that suggests deference and establishes friend-
ship in a manner forbidden by the code.
Fielding is also untypical: truly intelligent and sensitive, happiest in the
give-and-take of a private conversation. Yet his capacities for understanding
and sympathy fail before India’s massive incomprehensibility; he would
have been a perfect hero in Forster’s earlier fictions, but here he is defeated.
At least Fielding can “connect” with a character like Aziz, half of Forster’s
ploy for dealing with India in a British novel by dividing it into two parts,
one Islamic, the other Hindu. In 1857, Harriet Martineau had remarked,
“The unprepared mind, whether Hindu or Mussulman, developed under
Asiatic conditions, cannot be in sympathy, more or less, intellectually or
morally, with the Christianized European mind.” 24 Forster emphasizes the
Muslims, compared with whom the Hindus (including Godbole) are periph-
eral, as if they were not amenable to novelistic treatment. Islam was closer
to Western culture, standing in a median position to the English and the
Hindus in Forster’s Chandrapore. Forster is slightly nearer Islam than Hin-
duism in A Postage to India, but the final lack of sympathy is obvious.
Hindus, according to the novel, believe that all is muddle, all connected,
God is one, is not, was not, was. By contrast, Islam, as represented by Aziz,
apprehends order and a specific God. (“The comparatively simple mind of
the Mohammedan,” 25 says Forster ambiguously, as if to imply both that Aziz
has a comparatively simple mind, and that “the Mohammedan,” generally
speaking, does also.) To Fielding, Aziz is quasi-Italian, although his exag-
gerated view of the Mogul past, his passion for poetry, his odd pudevr with
the pictures of his wife that he carries around, suggest an exotic un-Mediter-
ranean being. Despite Fielding’s wonderful Bloomsbury qualities, his ability
to judge charitably and lovingly, his passionate intelligence based on human
norms, he is finally rejected by India itself, to whose disorienting heart only
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2°3
Mrs. Moore penetrates, but she is ultimately killed by her vision. Dr. Aziz
becomes a nationalist, but I think Forster is disappointed by him for what
only seem his posturings; he cannot connect him to the larger, coherent
movement for Indian independence. According to Francis Hutchins, in the
late nineteenth century and early twentieth “the nationalist movement, to
an astonishing extent, drew no response from the British imagination in
India.” 26
When they travelled through India in 1912, Beatrice and Sidney Webb
noted the difficulty British employers were having with Indian laborers
working for the Raj, either because laziness was a form of resistance (very
common elsewhere in Asia, as S. H. Alatas has shown) 27 or because of the
so-called “drain theory” of Dadabhai Naoroji, who had argued to the satis-
faction of nationalist parties that India’s wealth was being drained off by the
British. The Webbs blame “those old standing European inhabitants of India
[who] have not acquired the art of managing the Indians.” Then they add:
What is equally clear is that the Indian is sometimes an extraordinarily
difficult worker to sweat. He does not care enough for his earnings. He
prefers to waste away in semi-starvation than overwork himself. How-
ever low his standard of life, his standard of work is lower — at any rate
when he is working for an employer he does not like. And his ir-
regularities are baffling. 28
This hardly suggests a contest between two warring nations; similarly, in A
Passage to India Forster finds India difficult because it is so strange and
unidentifiable, or because people like Aziz will let themselves be seduced by
jejune nationalist sentiment, or because if one tries to come to terms with it,
as Mrs. Moore does, one cannot recover from the encounter.
To the Westerners Mrs. Moore is a nuisance, as she is to herself after her
sojourn in the Caves. To the Indians roused momentarily to a sort of
nationalist coherence during the court scene; Mrs. Moore is less a person
than a mobilizing phrase, a funny Indianized principle of protest and com-
munity: “Esmiss Esmoor.” She has an experience of India that she does not
understand, whereas Fielding superficially understands but does not have
the deep experience. The novel's helplessness neither goes all the way and
condemns (or defends) British colonialism, nor condemns or defends Indian
nationalism. True, Forster’s ironies undercut everyone from the blimpish
Turtons and Burtons to the posturing, comic Indians, but one cannot help
feeling that in view of the political realities of the 1910s and 1920s even such
a remarkable novel as A Passage to India nevertheless founders on the un-
dodgeable facts of Indian nationalism. Forster identifies the course of the
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
narrative with a Britisher, Fielding, who can understand only that India is
too vast and baffling, and that a Muslim like Aziz can be befriended only up
to a point, since his antagonism to colonialism is so unacceptably silly. The
sense that India and Britain are opposed nations (though their positions
overlap), is played down, muffled, frittered away.
These are the prerogatives of a novel that deals with personal, not official
or national, histories. Kipling, in contrast, directly acknowledged the politi-
cal reality as more than a source of novelistic irony, however threatened,
tragic, or violent the history of Britain in India may have been for him.
Indians are a various lot, they need to be known and understood, British
power has to reckon with Indians in India: such are Kipling’s coordinates,
politically speaking. Forster is evasive and more patronizing; there is truth
to Parry’s comment that “A Passage to India is the triumphant expression of
the British imagination exploring India,” 2 ” but it is also true that Forster’s
India is so affectionately personal and so remorselessly metaphysical that his
view of Indians as a nation contending for sovereignty with Britain is not
politically very serious, or even respectful. Consider the following:
Hamidullah had called in on his way to a worrying committee of
notables, nationalist in tendency, where Hindus, Moslems, two Sikhs,
two Parsis, a Jain, and Native Christian tried to like one another more
than came natural to them. As long as someone abused the English, all
went well, but nothing constructive had been achieved, and if the
English were to leave India, the committee would vanish also. He was
glad that Aziz, whom he loved and whose family was connected with
his own, took no interest in politics, which ruin the character and
career, yet nothing can be achieved without them. He thought of
Cambridge — sadly, as of another poem that had ended. How happy he
had been there, twenty years ago! Politics had not mattered in Mr. and
Mrs. Bannister’s rectory. There, games, work, and pleasant society had
interwoven, and appeared to be sufficient substructure for a national
life. Here all was wire-pulling and fear . 50
This registers a change in political climate: what was once possible in the
Bannister rectory or in Cambridge is no longer appropriate in the age of
strident nationalism. But Forster sees Indians with imperial eyes when he
says that it is “natural” for sects to dislike one another or when he dismisses
the power of nationalist committees to last beyond the English presence, or
when nationalism, humdrum and modest though it may have been, is only
“wire-pulling and fear.” His presumption is that be can get past the puerile
nationalist put-ons to the essential India; when it comes to ruling India —
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20 $
which is what Hamidullah and the others are agitating about — the English
had better go on doing it, despite their mistakes: “they” are not yet ready for
self-rule.
This view goes back to Mill, of course, and surprisingly resembles the
position of Bulwer-Lytton, who as Viceroy in 1878 and 1879 had this to say:
Already great mischief has been done by the deplorable tendency of
second-rate Indian officials, and superficial English philanthropists to
ignore the essential and insurmountable distinctions of race qualities,
which are fundamental to our position in India; and thus, unintention-
ally, to pamper the conceit and the vanity of half-educated natives, to
the serious detriment of commonsense, and of the wholesome recogni-
tion of realities. 51
On another occasion he said that “the Baboodom of Lower Bengal, though
disloyal is fortunately cowardly and its only revolver is its ink bottle; which
though dirty, is not dangerous.” 52 In The Emergence of Indian Nationalism,
where these passages are cited, Anil Seal notes that Bulwer-Lytton missed
the main trend in Indian politics, a trend perceived by an alert District
Commissioner who wrote that
twenty years ago ... we had to take account of local nationalities and
particular races. The resentment of the Mahratta did not involve that
of the Bengalee Now ... we have changed all that, and are beginning
to find ourselves face to face, not with the population of individual
provinces, but with 200 millions of people united by sympathies and
intercourse which we have ourselves created and fostered. 55
Of course Forster was a novelist, not a political officer or theorist or
prophet. Yet he found a way to use the mechanism of the novel to elaborate
on the already existing structure of attitude and reference without changing
it. This structure permitted one to feel affection for and even intimacy with
some Indians and India generally, but made one see Indian politics as the
charge of the British, and culturally refused a privilege to Indian nationalism
(which, by the way, it gave willingly to Greeks and Italians). Anil Seal again:
In Egypt, as in India, activities inconvenient to the British were judged
to be self-interested machinations rather than genuine nationalisms.
The Gladstone government saw Arabi’s revolt in Egypt as a few army
officers on the make, abetted by some Egyptian intellectuals who had
taken to reading the works of Lamartine — a comforting conclusion for
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
it justified Gladstonians in negating their own principles. After all,
there were no Garibaldis in Cairo. And neither were there in Calcutta
or Bombay. 34
How a resisting nationalism can be represented by a British writer who
views it sympathetically is a problem Forster does not himself explicitly take
on in his own work. It is, however, very affectingly studied by the crusading
opponent of British policy in India, Edward Thompson, in his The Other Side
of the Medal, published in 19 16, two years after A Passage to India. Thompson’s
subject is misrepresentation. Indians, he says, see the English entirely
through the experience of British brutality during the 1857 “Mutiny.” The
English, with the pompous, cold-blooded religiosity of the Raj at its worst,
see Indians and their history as barbaric, uncivilized, inhuman. Thompson
notes the imbalance between the two misrepresentations, that one misrepre-
sentation has all the power of modern technology and diffusion to back
it— -from the army to the Oxford History of India — whereas the other relies on
the pamphlet and the mobilizing rejectionist sentiments of an oppressed
people. Still, Thompson says, we must recognize the fact that Indian
hatred exists — savage, set hatred — -is certain; and the sooner we recog-
nize it, and search for its reasons, the better. The discontent with our
rule is growing universal, and there must be first, widespread popular
memories to account for that discontent being able to spread; and,
secondly, blazing hatred at its heart, to have caused it to gather such
rapid momentum. 35
Hence, he says, we must ask for “a new orientation in the histories of India,”
we must express “atonement” for what we have done, and above all, we
should recognize that Indian men and women “want their self-respect given
back to them. Make them free again, and enable them to look us and
everyone in the eyes, and they will behave like free people and cease to
lie.” 36
Thompson’s powerful and admirable book is deeply symptomatic in two
ways. He admits the paramount importance of culture in consolidating
imperial feeling, the writing of history, he says over and over, is tied to the
extension of empire. His is one of the earliest and most persuasive metropol-
itan attempts to understand imperialism as a cultural affliction for colonizer
as well as colonized. But he is bound to the notion that there is “a truth” to
events involving both sides that transcends them. Indians “lie” because they
are not free, whereas he (and other oppositional figures like him) can see the
truth because they are free and because they are English. No more than
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Forster could Thompson grasp that — as Fanon argued — the empire never
gives anything away out of goodwill. 37 It cannot give Indians their freedom,
but must be forced to yield it as the result of a protracted political, cultural,
and sometimes military straggle that becomes more, not less adversarial as
time goes on. Similarly the British, who in holding on to empire are part of
the same dynamic; their attitudes can only be defended until they are
defeated.
The battle between native and white man had to be visibly joined, as it
had been by 1926, for Thompson to see himself as being on “the other side.”
There are now two sides, two nations, in combat, not merely the voice of
the white master answered antiphonally — reactively — by the colonial up-
start Fanon calls this in a theatrical passage the “alterity of rapture, of
conflict, of battle.” 38 Thompson accepts this more fully than Forster, for
whom the novel’s nineteenth-century legacy of seeing the natives as subor-
dinate and dependent is still powerful.
In France, there was no one who, like Kipling, even as he celebrated the
empire warned of its impending cataclysmic demise, and no one like Forster,
either. France was culturally attached to what Raoul Girardet calls a double
movement of pride and worry — pride taken in work accomplished in the
colonies, fear about the colonies’ destiny. 39 But as in England, the French
reaction to Asian and African nationalism scarcely amounted to a lifted
eyebrow, except when the Communist Party, in line with the Third Inter-
national, supported anti-colonial revolution and resistance against em-
pire. Girardet remarks that two important works by Gide in the years
after L’lmmoraliste, his Voyage au Congo (1927) and Retour du Tchad (1928),
raise doubts about French colonialism in sub-Saharan Africa, but he
adds shrewdly, Gide nowhere questions “le principe elle-meme de la
colonisation.” 40
The pattern is, alas, always the same: critics of colonialism like Gide and
Tocqueville attack abuses in places and by powers that do not greatly touch
them and either condone abuses of power in French territories they care
about or, failing to make a general case against all repression or imperial
hegemony, say nothing.
During the 1930s a serious ethnographic literature lovingly and painstak-
ingly discussed native societies in the French imperium. Works by Maurice
Delafosse, Charles Andre Julien, Labouret, Marcel Griaule, Michel Leiris
gave substantive and careful thought to distant, often obscure cultures, and
gave them an esteem otherwise denied within the strictures of political
imperialism. 41
Something of that special mix of learned attention and the imperial
enclosure is to be found in Malraux’s La Vote royale (1930), one of the least
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
known and discussed of his works. Malraux was himself both adventurer and
amateur ethnographer-archeologist; in his background were Leo Frobenius,
the Conrad of Heart of Darkness, T. E. Lawrence, Rimbaud, Nietzsche, and,
I am convinced, Gide’s character Menalque. La Vote royale enacts a voyage
into “the interior,” in this case French Indochina (a fart scarcely noted by
Malraux’s major critics, for whom, as with Camus and bis critics, the only
setting worth talking about is European). Perken and Claude (the narrator)
on the one hand, and the French authorities on the other contest for domi-
nation and loot: Perken wants the Cambodian bas-reliefs, the bureaucrats
look on his quest with suspicion and dislike. When the adventurers find
Grabot, a Kurtz figure, who has been captured, blinded, and tortured, they
try to get him back from the natives who have him, but his spirit has been
broken. After Perken is wounded and his diseased leg is seen to be destroy-
ing him, the indomitable egoist (like Kurtz in his final agony) pronounces his
defiant message to the grieving Claude (like Marlow):
“il n’y a pas . . . de mort ... II y a seulement . . . moi . . . Un doigt se
crispa sur la cuisse. . . . moi . . . qui vais mourir. ,,<2
The jungle and tribes of Indochina are represented in La Voie royale with
a combination of fear and inviting allure. Grabot is held by Mois tribespeo-
ple; Perken has ruled the Stieng people for a long period and, like a devoted
anthropologist, tries in vain to protect them from encroaching moderniza-
tion (in the form of a colonial railroad). Yet despite the menace and disquiet
of the novel’s imperial setting, little suggests the political menace, or that the
cosmic doom engulfing Claude, Perken, and Grabot is anything more his-
torically concrete than a generalized malevolence against which one must
exert one’s will. Yes, one can negotiate small deals in the alien world of the
indigenes (Perken does this with the Mois, for example), but his overall
hatred for Cambodia suggests, rather melodramatically, the metaphysical
gulf separating East from West
I attach so much importance to La Voie royale because, as the work of an
extraordinary European talent, it testifies so conclusively to the inability of
the Western humanistic conscience to confront the political challenge of
the imperial domains. For both Forster in the 1920s and Malraux in 1930,
men genuinely familiar with the non-European world, a grander destiny
confronts the West than one of mere national self-determination — self-
consciousness, will, or even the deep issues of taste and discrimination.
Perhaps the novel form itself dulls their perceptions, with its structure of
attitude and reference held over from the previous century. If one compares
Malraux with the celebrated French expert on Indochinese culture Paul
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Themes of Resistance Culture
109
Mus, whose book Viet-Nam: Sociologie dune guerre appeared twenty years
later, on the eve of Dien Bien Phu, and who saw, as Edward Thompson did,
the profound political crisis that separated France from Indochina, the
difference is striking. In a remarkable chapter entitled “Sur la route Viet-
namienne” (perhaps echoing La Vote royale ), Mus speaks plainly of the
French institutional system and its secular violation of Vietnamese sacred
values; the Chinese, he says, understood Vietnam better than France, with
its railroads, schools, and “administration laique.” Without religious man-
date, with little knowledge of Vietnamese traditional morality, and even less
attention to local nativism and sensibility, the French were merely inatten-
tive conquerors . 43
Like Thompson, Mus sees Europeans and Asiatics bound together, and,
again like Thompson, he opposes continuing the colonial system. He pro-
poses independence for Vietnam, despite the Soviet and Chinese menace,
yet wants a French-Vietnamese pact that would give France certain privi-
leges in Vietnamese reconstruction (this is the burden of the book’s final
chapter, “Que faire?”). This is a very far cry from Malraux, but only a small
mutation in the European concept of tutelage — albeit enlightened tute-
lage — for the non-European. And it falls short of recognizing the full
strength of what so far as Western imperialism was concerned became the
Third World’s antinomian nationalism, which expressed not cooperation
but' antagonism.
( II )
Themes of Resistance Culture
T he slow and often bitterly disputed recovery of geographical territory
which is at the heart of decolonization is preceded — -as empire had
been — by the charting of cultural territory. After the period of “primary
resistance,” literally fighting against outside intrusion, there comes the pe-
riod of secondary, that is, ideological resistance, when efforts are made to
reconstitute a “shattered community, to save or restore the sense and fact of
community against all the pressures of the colonial system ,” 44 as Basil
Davidson puts it. This in turn makes possible the establishment of new and
independent stakes. It is important to note that we are not mainly talking
here about utopian regions — idyllic meadows, so to speak — discovered in
their private past by the intellectuals, poets, prophets, leaders, and historians
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of resistance. Davidson speaks of the “otherworldly” promises made by some
in their early phase, for example, rejecting Christianity and the wearing of
Western clothes. But all of them respond to the humiliations of colonialism,
and lead to “the principal teaching of nationalism: the need to find the
ideological basis for a wider unity than any known before.” 45
This basis is found, I believe, in the rediscovery and repatriation of what
had been suppressed in the natives’ past by the processes of imperialism.
Thus we can understand Fanon's insistence on rereading Hegel’s master-
slave dialectic in light of the colonial situation, a situation in which Fanon
remarks on how the master in imperialism “differs basically from the master
described by Hegel. For Hegel there is reciprocity; here the master laughs
at the consciousness of the slave. What he wants from the slave is not
recognition but work.” 46 To achieve recognition is to rechan and then
occupy the place in imperial cultural forms reserved for subordination, to
occupy it self-consciously, fighting for it on the very same territory once
ruled by a consciousness that assumed the subordination of a designated
inferior Other. Hence, reinscription. The irony is that Hegel’s dialectic is
Hegel’s, after all: he was there first, just as the Marxist dialectic of subject
and object had been there before the Fanon of Les Damnes used it to explain
the struggle between colonizer and colonized.
That is the partial tragedy of resistance, that it must to a certain degree
work to recover forms already established or at least influenced or infiltrated
by the culture of empire. This is another instance of what I have called
overlapping territories: the struggle over Africa in the twentieth century, for
example, is over territories designed and redesigned by explorers from
Europe for generations, a process memorably and painstakingly conveyed in
Philip Curtin’s The Image of Africa .*'' } ust as the Europeans saw Africa polemi-
cally as a blank place when they took it, or assumed its supinely yielding
availability when they plotted to partition it at the 1884-85- Berlin Congress,
decolonizing Africans found it necessary to reimagine an Africa stripped of
its imperial past.
Take as a specific instance of this battle over projections and ideological
images the so-called quest or voyage motif, which appears in much Euro-
pean literature and especially literature about the non-European world. In
all the great explorers’ narratives of the late Renaissance (Daniel Defert has
aptly called them the collection of the world [la collecte du monde]) 48 and
those of the nineteenth-century explorers and ethnographers, not to men-
tion Conrad’s voyage up the Congo, there is the topos of the voyage south
as Mary Louise Pratt has called it, referring to Gide and Camus, 49 in which
the motif of control and authority has “sounded uninterruptedly.” For the
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211
native who begins to see and hear that persisting note, it sounds “the note
of crisis, of banishment, banishment from the heart, banishment from home.”
This is how Stephen Dedalus memorably states it in the Library episode of
Ulysses? 0 the decolonizing native writer — such as Joyce, the Irish writer
colonized by the British — re-experiences the quest-voyage motif from
which he had been banished by means of the same trope carried over from
the imperial into the new culture and adopted, reused, relived.
The River Between, by James Ngugi (later Ngugi wa Thiongo), redoes Heart
of Darkness by inducing life into Conrad’s river on the very first page. “The
river was called Honia, which meant cure, or bring-back-to-life. Honia river
never dried: it seemed to possess a strong will to live, scorning droughts and
weather changes. And it went on in the very same way, never hurrying,
never hesitating. People saw this and were happy.” 51 Conrad’s images of
river, exploration, and mysterious setting are never far from our awareness
as we read, yet they are quite differently weighted, differently — even jar-
ringly — experienced in a deliberately understated, self-consciously unidi-
omatic and austere language. In Ngugi the white man recedes in
importance — he is compressed into a single missionary figure emblemati-
cally called Livingstone — although his influence is felt in the divisions that
separate the villages, the riverbanks, and the people from one another. In the
internal conflict ravaging Waiyaki’s life, Ngugi powerfully conveys the
unresolved tensions that will continue well after the novel ends and that the
novel makes no effort to contain. A new pattern, suppressed in Heart of
Darkness, appears, out of which Ngugi generates a new mythos, whose
tenuous course and final obscurity suggest a return to an African Africa.
And in T ayeb Salih’s Season of Migration to the North, Conrad’s river is now
the Nile, whose waters rejuvenate its peoples, and Conrad’s first-person
British narrative style and European protagonists are in a sense reversed,
first through the use of Arabic; second in that Salih’s novel concerns the
northward voyage of a Sudanese to Europe; and third, because the narrator
speaks from a Sudanese village. A voyage into the heart of darkness is thus
converted into a sacralized begira from the Sudanese countryside, still
weighted down with its colonial legacy, into the heart of Europe, where
Mostapha Said, a mirror image of Kurtz, unleashes ritual violence on him-
self, on European women, on the narrator’s understanding. The hegira con-
cludes with Said’s return to and suicide in his native village. So deliberate
are Salih’s mimetic reversals of Conrad that even Kurtz’s skull-topped fence
is repeated and distorted in the inventory of European books stacked in
Said’s secret library. The interventions and crossings from north to south,
and from south to north, enlarge and complicate the back-and-forth colonial
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trajectory mapped by Conrad; what results is not simply a reclamation of the
Active territory, but an articulation of some of the discrepancies and their
imagined consequences muffled by Conrad’s majestic prose.
Over there is like here, neither better nor worse. But I am from here,
just as the date palm standing in the courtyard of our house has grown
in our house and not in anyone else’s. The fact that they came to our
land I know not why, does that mean that we should poison our present
and our future? Sooner or later they will leave our country, just as many
people throughout history left many countries. The railways, ships,
hospitals, factories, and schools will be ours and we’ll speak their
language without either a sense of guilt or a sense of gratitude. Once
again we shall be as we were — ordinary people — and if we are lies we
shall be lies of our own making . 52
The post-imperial writers of the Third World therefore bear their past
within them — as scars of humiliating wounds, as instigation for different
practices, as potentially revised visions of the past tending toward a post-
colonial future, as urgently reinterpretable and redeployable experiences, in
which the formerly silent native speaks and acts on territory reclaimed as
part of a general movement of resistance, from the colonist.
Another motif emerges in the culture of resistance. Consider the stunning
cultural effort to claim a restored and invigorated authority over a region in
the many modern Latin American and Caribbean versions of Shakespeare’s
The Tempest. This fable is one of several that stand guard over the imagina-
tion of the New World; other stories are the adventures and discoveries of
Columbus, Robinson Crusoe, John Smith and Pocahontas, and the adven-
tures of Inkle and Yariko. (A brilliant study, Colonial Encounters by Peter
Hulme, surveys them all in some detail .) 53 It is a measure of how embattled
this matter of “inaugural figures” has become that it is now virtually impossi-
ble to say anything simple about any of them. To call this reinterpretative
zeal merely simpleminded, vindictive, or assaultive is wrong, I think. In a
totally new way in Western culture, the interventions of non-European
artists and scholars cannot be dismissed or silenced, and these interventions
are not only an integral part of a political movement, but in many ways the
movement’s successfully guiding imagination, intellectual and figurative en-
ergy reseeing and rethinking the terrain common to whites and non-whites.
For natives to want to lay claim to that terrain is, for many Westerners, an
intolerable effrontery, for them actually to repossess it unthinkable.
The core of Aime Cesaire’s Caribbean Unc Tempete is not ressentiment, but
an affectionate contention with Shakespeare for the right to represent the
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Caribbean. That impulse to contend is part of a grander effort to discover
the bases of an integral identity different from the formerly dependent,
derivative one. Caliban, according to George Lamming, “is the excluded,
that which is eternally below possibility He is seen as an occasion, a state
of existence which can be appropriated and exploited to the purposes of
another’s own development.” 54 If that is so, then Caliban must be shown to
have a history that can be perceived on its own, as the result of Caliban’s own
effort. One must, according to Lamming, “explode Prospero’s old myth” by
christening “language afresh”; but this cannot occur “until we show language
as the product of human endeavor; until we make available to all the result
of certain enterprises undertaken by men who are still regarded as the
unfortunate descendants of languageless and deformed slaves.” ss
Lamming’s point is that, while identity is crucial, just to assert a different
identity is never enough. The main thing is to be able to see that Caliban
has a history capable of development, as part of the process of work, growth,
and maturity to which only Europeans had seemed entitled. Each new
American reinscription of The Tempest is therefore a local version of the old
grand story, invigorated and inflected by the pressures of an unfolding
political and cultural history. The Cuban critic Roberto Fernandez Retamar
makes the significant point that for modern Latin Americans and Carib-
beans, it is Caliban himself, and not Ariel, who is the main symbol of
hybridity, with his strange and unpredictable mixture of attributes. This is
truer 'to the Creole, or mestizo composite of the new America. 56
Retamar’s choice of Caliban over Ariel signals a profoundly important
ideological debate at the heart of the cultural effort to decolonize, an effort
at the restoration of community and repossession of culture that goes on
long after the political establishment of independent nation-states. Resis-
tance and decolonization as I talk about them here persist well after success-
ful nationalism has come to a stop. This debate is symbolized in Ngugi’s
Decolonising the Mind (1986), which records his farewell to English as well as
his attempt to further the cause of liberation by exploring African language
and literature more deeply. 57 A similar effort is embodied in Barbara Har-
low’s important book, Resistance Literature (1987), whose purpose is to employ
the tools of recent literary theory to give a place to “the literary output of
geopolitical areas which stand in opposition to the very social and political
organization within which the theories are located and to which they
respond.” 58
The basic form of the debate is best immediately translated into a set of
alternatives that we can derive from the Ariel-Caliban choice, whose history
in Latin America is a special and unusual one but useful for other areas as
well. The Latin American discussion (to which Retamar is a well-known
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
recent contributor: others were Josti Enrique Rod6 and Jos6 Marti) is really
a response to the question How does a culture seeking to become indepen-
dent of imperialism imagine its own past? One choice is to do it as Ariel does,
that is, as a willing servant of Prospero; Ariel does what he is told obligingly,
and, when he gains his freedom, he returns to his native element, a sort of
bourgeois native untroubled by his collaboration with Prospero. A second
choice is to do it like Caliban, aware of and accepting his mongrel past but
not disabled for future development A third choice is to be a Caliban who
sheds his current servitude and physical disfigurements in the process of
discovering his essential, pre-colonial self This Caliban is behind the nativist
and radical nationalisms that produced concepts of nigritude, Islamic funda-
mentalism, Arabism, and the like.
Both Calibans nourish and require each other. Every subjugated commu-
nity in Europe, Australia, Africa, Asia, and the Americas has played the
sorely tried and oppressed Caliban to some outside master like Prospero. To
become aware of one’s self as belonging to a subject people is the founding
insight of anti-imperialist nationalism. From that insight came literatures,
innumerable political parties, a host of other struggles for minority and
women’s rights, and, much of the time, newly independent states. Yet, as
Fanon rightly observes, nationalist consciousness can very easily lead to
frozen rigidity; merely to replace white officers and bureaucrats with colored
equivalents, he says, is no guarantee that the nationalist functionaries will
not replicate the old dispensation. The dangers of chauvinism and xenopho-
bia (“Africa for the Africans”) are very real. It is best when Caliban sees his
own history as an aspect of the history of all subjugated men and women, and
comprehends the complex truth of his own social and historical situation.
We must not minimize the shattering importance of that initial insight —
peoples being conscious of themselves as prisoners in their own land — for
it returns again and again in the literature of the imperialized world. The
history of empire — punctuated by uprisings throughout most of the nine-
teenth century — in India; in German, French, Belgian, and British Africa; in
Haiti, Madagascar, North Africa, Burma, the Philippines, Egypt, and else-
where — seems incoherent unless one recognizes that sense of beleaguered
imprisonment infused with a passion for community that grounds anti-
imperial resistance in cultural effort. Aim6 C^saire:
Ce qui est a moi aussi: une petite
cellule dans le Jura,
une petite cellule, la neige la double de barreaux blancs
la neige est un geolier blanc qui monte
la garde devant une prison
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Ce qui est a moi:
c'est urt homme seul emprisonne de
blanc
c’est un homme seul qui defie les cris
blancs de la morte blanche
(TOUSSAINT, T 0 US SAINT L ‘0 UVER TURE) n
Most often, the concept of race itself gives the prison its raison d'etre; and
it rums up nearly everywhere in the culture of resistance. Tagore speaks of
it in his great lectures called Nationalism, published in 1917. “The Nation” is
for Tagore a tight and unforgiving receptacle of power for producing con-
formity, whether British, Chinese, Indian, or Japanese, India’s answer, he
said, must be to provide not a competing nationalism, but a creative solution
to the divisiveness produced by racial consciousness. 60 A similar insight is at
the heart of W.E.B. Du Bois’s The Souls of Black Folk (1903): “How does it feel
to be a problem? . . . Why did God make me an outcast and a stranger in mine
own house?” 61 Both Tagore and Du Bois, however, warn against a wholesale,
indiscriminate attack on white or Western culture. It is not Western culture
that is to blame, says Tagore, but “the judicious niggardliness of the Nation
that has taken upon itself the white man’s burden of criticizing the East.” 62
Three great topics emerge in decolonizing cultural resistance, separated
for analytical purposes, but all related. One, of course, is the insistence on
the right to see the community's history whole, coherently, integrally. Re-
store the imprisoned nation to itself, (Benedict Anderson connects this in
Europe to “print-capitalism,” which “gave a new fixity to language” and
“created unified fields of exchange and communications below Latin and
above the spoken vernaculars.”) 6 ’ The concept of the national language is
central, but without the practice of a national culture — from slogans to
pamphlets and newspapers, from folktales and heroes to epic poetry, novels,
and drama — the language is inert; national culture organizes and sustains
communal memory, as when early defeats in African resistance stories are
resumed (“they took our weapons in 1903; now we are taking them back”);
it reinhabits the landscape using restored ways of life, heroes, heroines, and
exploits; it formulates expressions and emotions of pride as well as defiance,
which in turn form the backbone of the principal national independence
parties. Local slave narratives, spiritual autobiographies, prison memoirs
form a counterpoint to the Western powers’ monumental histories, official
discourses, and panoptic quasi-scientific viewpoint. In Egypt, for example,
the historical novels of Girgi Zaydan bring together for the first time a
specifically Arab narrative (rather the way Walter Scott did a century
before). In Spanish America, according to Anderson, creole communities
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
“produced creoles who consciously redefined these [mixed] populations as
fellow nationals .” 64 Both Anderson and Hannah Arendt note the widespread
global movement to “achieve solidarities on an essentially imagined basis .” 65
Second is the idea that resistance, far from being merely a reaction to
imperialism, is an alternative way of conceiving human history. It is particu-
larly important to see how much this alternative reconception is based on
breaking down the barriers between cultures. Certainly, as the title of a
fascinating book has it, writing back to the metropolitan cultures, disrupting
the European narratives of the Orient and Africa, replacing them with either
a more playful or a more powerful new narrative style is a major component
in the process . 66 Salman Rushdie’s novel Midnight’s Children is a brilliant
work based on the liberating imagination of independence itself, with all
its anomalies and contradictions working themselves out. The conscious
effort to enter into the discourse of Europe and the West, to mix with it,
transform it, to make it acknowledge marginalized or suppressed or forgot-
ten histories is of particular interest in Rushdie’s work, and in an earlier
generation of resistance writing. This kind of work was carried out by
dozens of scholars, critics, and intellectuals in the peripheral world; I call
this effort the voyage in.
Third is a noticeable pull away from separatist nationalism toward a more
integrative view of human community and human liberation. I want to be
very clear about this. No one needs to be reminded that throughout the
imperial world during the decolonizing period, protest, resistance, and inde-
pendence movements were fuelled by one or another nationalism. Debates
today about Third World nationalism have been increasing in volume and
interest, not least because to many scholars and observers in the West, this
reappearance of nationalism revived several anachronistic attitudes; Elie
Kedourie, for example, considers non- Western nationalism essentially con-
demnable, a negative reaction to a demonstrated cultural and social inferior-
ity, an imitation of “Western” political behavior that brought little that was
good; others, like Eric Hobsbawm and Ernest Gellner, consider nationalism
as a form of political behavior that has been gradually superseded by new
trans-national realities of modern economies, electronic communications,
and superpower military projection . 67 In all these views, I believe, there is
a marked (and, in my opinion, ahistorical) discomfort with non-Western
societies acquiring national independence, which is believed to be “foreign”
to their ethos. Hence the repeated insistence on the Western provenance of
nationalist philosophies that are therefore ill-suited to, and likely to be
abused by Arabs, Zulus, Indonesians, Irish, or Jamaicans.
This, I think, is a criticism of newly independent peoples that carries with
it a broadly cultural opposition (from the Left as well as from the Right) to
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the proposition that the formerly subject peoples are entitled to the same
kind of nationalism as, say, the more developed, hence more deserving,
Germans or Italians. A confused and limiting notion of priority allows that
only the original proponents of an idea can understand and use it. But the
history of all cultures is the history of cultural borrowings. Cultures are not
impermeable; just as Western science borrowed from Arabs, they had bor-
rowed from India and Greece. Culture is never just a matter of ownership,
of borrowing and lending with absolute debtors and creditors, but rather of
appropriations, common experiences, and interdependencies of all kinds
among different cultures. This is a universal norm. Who has yet determined
how much the domination of others contributed to the enormous wealth of
the English and French states?
A more interesting critique of non- Western nationalism comes from the
Indian scholar and theoretician Partha Chatterjee (a member of the Subal-
tern Studies group). Much nationalist thought in India, he says, depends
upon the realities of colonial power, either in totally opposing it or in
affirming a patriotic consciousness. This “leads inevitably to an elitism of the
intelligentsia, rooted in the vision of a radical regeneration of national
culture .” 68 To restore the nation in such a situation is basically to dream a
romantically utopian ideal, which is undercut by the political reality. Ac-
cording to Chatterjee, the radical milestone in nationalism was reached in
Gandhi’s opposition to modem civilization entirely: influenced by anti-
modern thinkers like Ruskin and Tolstoi, Gandhi stands epistemically
outside the thematic of post-Enlightenment thought . 69 Nehru’s accomplish-
ment was to take the Indian nation as liberated from modernity by Gandhi
and deposit it entirely within the concept of the state. “The world of the
concrete, the world of differences, of conflict, of the struggle between classes,
of history and politics, now finds its unity in the life of the state .” 70
Chatterjee shows that successful anti-imperialist nationalism has a history
of evasion and avoidance, and that nationalism can become a panacea for
not dealing with economic disparities, social injustice, and the capture of the
newly independent state by a nationalist elite. But he does not emphasize
enough, I think, that the culture’s contribution to statism is often the result
of a separatist, even chauvinist and authoritarian conception of nationalism.
There is also, however, a consistent intellectual trend within the nationalist
consensus that is vitally critical, that refuses the short-term blandishments
of separatist and triumphalist slogans in favor of the larger, more generous
human realities of community among cultures, peoples, and societies. This
community is the real human liberation portended by the resistance to
imperialism. Basil Davidson makes roughly the same point in his magisterial
book Africa in Modem History: The Search for a New Society . 71
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I do not want to be misunderstood as advocating a simple anti-nationalist
position. It is historical fact that nationalism — restoration of community,
assertion of identity, emergence of new cultural practices — as a mobilized
political force instigated and then advanced the struggle against Western
domination everywhere in the non-European world. It is no more useful to
oppose that than to oppose Newton’s discovery of gravity. Whether it was
the Philippines, or any number of African territories, or the Indian subconti-
nent, the Arab world, or the Caribbean and much of Latin America, China
or Japan, natives banded together in independence and nationalist groupings
that were based on a sense of identity which was ethnic, religious, or
communal, and was opposed to further Western encroachment. That hap-
pened from the beginning. It became a global reality in the twentieth
century because it was so widespread a reaction to the Western incursion,
which had also become extraordinarily widespread; with few exceptions
people banded together in asserting their resistance to what they perceived
was an unjust practice against them, mainly for being what they were, i.e.,
non-Western. Certainly it was the case that these groupings were at times
fiercely exclusivist, as many historians of nationalism have shown. But we
must also focus on the intellectual and cultural argument within the nation-
alist resistance that once independence was gained new and imaginative
reconceptions of society and culture were required in order to avoid the old
orthodoxies and injustices.
The women’s movement is central here. For as primary resistance gets
under way, to be followed by fully fledged nationalist parties, unfair male
practices like concubinage, polygamy, foot-binding, rati, and virtual enslave-
ment become the focal points of women’s resistance. In Egypt, Turkey,
Indonesia, China, and Ceylon the early- twentieth-century struggle for the
emancipation of women is organically related to nationalist agitation. Raja
Ramuhan Roy, an early-nineteenth-century nationalist influenced by Mary
Wollstonecraft, mobilized the early campaign for Indian women’s rights, a
common pattern in the colonized world, where the first intellectual stirrings
against injustice included attention to the abused rights of all oppressed
classes. Later women writers and intellectuals — often from privileged
classes and often in alliance with Western apostles of women’s rights like
Annie Besant — came to the forefront of agitation for women’s education.
Kumari Jayawardena’s central work Feminism and Nationalism in the Third
World describes the efforts of Indian reformers like Tora Dutt, D. K. Karve,
and Cornelia Sorabjee, and of militants such as Pundita Ramabai. Their
counterparts in the Philippines, Egypt (Huda Shaarawi), Indonesia (Raden
Kartini) broadened the stream of what became feminism, which after inde-
pendence became one of the main liberationist tendencies , 72
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This larger search for liberation was most in evidence where the national-
ist accomplishment had been either checked or greatly delayed — in Algeria,
Guinea, Palestine, sections of the Islamic and Arab world, and South Africa.
Students of post-colonial politics have not, I think, looked enough at the
ideas that minimize orthodoxy and authoritarian or patriarchal thought, that
take a severe view of the coercive nature of identity politics. Perhaps this is
because the Idi Amins and Saddam Husseins of the Third World have
hijacked nationalism so completely and in so ghastly a manner. That many
nationalists are sometimes more coercive or more intellectually self-critical
than others is clear, but my own thesis is that, at its best, nationalist resis-
tance to imperialism was always critical of itself An attentive reading of
towering figures within the nationalist ranks — writers like C.L.R. James,
Neruda, Tagore himself, Fanon, Cabral, and others — discriminates among
the various forces vying for ascendancy within the anti-imperialist, national-
ist camp. James is a perfect case in point Long a champion of Black national-
ism, he always tempered his advocacy with disclaimers and reminders that
assertions of ethnic particularity were not enough, just as solidarity without
criticism was not enough. There is a great deal of hope to be derived from
this if only because, far from being at the end of history, we are in a position
to do something about our own present and future history, whether we live
inside or outside the metropolitan world.
In sum, decolonization is a very complex battle over the course of differ-
ent political destinies, different histories and geographies, and it is replete
with works of the imagination, scholarship and counter-scholarship. The
struggle took the form of strikes, marches, violent attack, retribution and
counter-retribution. Its fabric is also made up of novelists and colonial
officials writing about the nature of the Indian mentality, for example, of the
land rent schemes of Bengal, of the structure of Indian society; and, in
response, of Indians writing novels about a greater share in their rule,
intellectuals and orators appealing to the masses for greater commitments to
and mobilization for independence.
One cannot put timetables or fixed dates on this. India followed one
course, Burma another, West Africa another, Algeria still another, Egypt,
Syria, and Senegal still others. But in all cases one sees the gradually more
and more perceptible divisions between the massive national blocks: tjve
West — France, Britain, Holland, Belgium, Germany, etc. — on one side,
most of the natives on the other. Generally speaking therefore anti-imperial-
ist resistance builds gradually from sporadic and often unsuccessful revolts
until after World War One it erupts variously in major parties, movements,
and personalities all over the empire; for three decades after World War
Two, it becomes more militantly independence-minded and yields up the
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
new states in Africa and Asia. In the process it permanently changes the
internal situation of the Western powers, which divided into opponents and
supporters of the imperial policy.
illiam Butler Yeats has now been almost completely assimilated into
the canon as well as into the discourses of modern English literature
and European high modernism. Both these reckon with him as a great
modem Irish poet, deeply affiliated and interacting with his native traditions,
the historical and political context of his rimes, and the complex situation
of being a poet writing in English in a turbulently nationalist Ireland.
Despite Yeats's obvious and, I would say, settled presence in Ireland, in
British culture and literature, and in European modernism, he does present
another fascinating aspect: that of the indisputably great national poet who
during a period of anti-imperialist resistance articulates the experiences, the
aspirations, and the restorative vision of a people suffering under the domin-
ion of an offshore power.
From this perspective Yeats is a poet who belongs in a tradition not
usually considered his, that of the colonial world ruled by European imperi-
alism during a climactic insurrectionary stage. If this is not a customary way
of interpreting Yeats, then we need to say that he also belongs naturally to
the cultural domain, his by virtue of Ireland’s colonial status, which it shares
with a host of non-European regions: cultural dependency and antagonism
The high age of imperialism is said to have begun in the late 1870s, but
in English-speaking realms, it began well over seven hundred years before,
as Angus Calder’s gripping book Revolutionary Empire demonstrates so well.
Ireland was ceded by the Pope to Henry II of England in the liyos; he himself
came to Ireland in 1171. From that time on an amazingly persistent cultural
attitude existed toward Ireland as a place whose inhabitants were a barbarian
and degenerate race. Recent critics and historians — Seamus Deane, Nicho-
las Canny, Joseph Leerson, and R. N. Lebow among others — have studied
and documented this history, to whose formation such impressive figures as
Edmund Spenser and David Hume contributed in very large measure.
Thus India, North Africa, the Caribbean, Central and South America,
( in )
Yeats and Decolonization
together.
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many parts of Africa, China and Japan, the Pacific archipelago, Malaysia,
Australia, New Zealand, North America, and of course Ireland belong in a
group together, although most of the time they are treated separately. All of
them were sites of contention well before 1870, either between various local
resistance groups, or between the European powers themselves; in some
cases, India and Africa, for instance, the two struggles against outside domi-
nation were going on simultaneously long before 1857, and long before the
various European congresses on Africa at the end of the century.
The point here is that no matter how one wishes to demarcate high
imperialism — that period when nearly everyone in Europe and America
believed him or herself to be serving the high civilizational and commer-
cial cause of empire — imperialism itself had already been a continuous
process for several centuries of overseas conquest, rapacity, and scientific
exploration. For an Indian, or Irishman, or Algerian, the land was and
had been dominated by an alien power, whether liberal, monarchical, or
revolutionary.
But modern European imperialism was a constitutively, radically differ-
ent type of overseas domination from all earlier forms. Scale and scope were
only part of the difference, though certainly not Byzantium, or Rome, or
Athens, or Baghdad, or Spain and Portugal during the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries controlled anything like the size of the territories controlled by
Britain and France in the nineteenth century. The more important differ-
ences are first the sustained longevity of the disparity in power, and second,
the massive organization of the power, which affected the details and not just
the large outlines of life. By the early nineteenth century, Europe had begun
the industrial transformation of its economies — Britain leading the way;
feudal and traditional landholding structures were changing; new mercantil-
ist patterns of overseas trade, naval power, and colonialist settlement were
being established; the bourgeois revolution was entering its triumphant
stage. All these developments gave Europe a further ascendancy over its
offshore possessions, a profile of imposing and even daunting power. By the
beginning of World War One, Europe and America held most of the earth’s
surface in some sort of colonial subjugation.
This came about for many reasons, which a whole library of systematic
studies (beginning with those by critics of imperialism during its most
aggressive phase such as Hobson, Rosa Luxemburg, and Lenin) has ascribed
to largely economic and somewhat ambiguously characterized political pro-
cesses (in the case ofjoseph Schumpeter, psychologically aggressive ones as
well). The theory I advance in this book is that culture played a very
important, indeed indispensable role. At the heart of European culture
during the many decades of imperial expansion lay an undeterred and
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
unrelenting Eurocentrism. This accumulated experiences, territories, peo-
ples, histories; it studied them, it classified them, it verified them, and as
Calder says, it allowed “European men of business” the power “to scheme
grandly”; 73 but above all, it subordinated them by banishing their identities,
except as a lower order of being, from the culture and indeed the very idea
of white Christian Europe, This cultural process has to be seen as a vital,
informing, and invigorating counterpoint to the economic and political
machinery at the material center of imperialism. This Eurocentric culture
relentlessly codified and observed everything about the non-European or
peripheral world, and so thoroughly and in so detailed a manner as to leave
few items untouched, few cultures unstudied, few peoples and spots of land
unclaimed.
From these views there was hardly any significant divergence from the
Renaissance on, and if it is embarrassing for us to remark that those elements
of a society we have long considered to be progressive were, so far as empire
was concerned, uniformly retrograde, we still must not be afraid to say it.
Advanced writers and artists, the working class, and women — groups mar-
ginal in the West — showed an imperialist fervor that increased in intensity
and perfervid enthusiasm as the competition among various European and
American powers increased in brutality and senseless, even profitless, con-
trol. Eurocentrism penetrated to the core of the workers’ movement, the
women’s movement, the avant-garde arts movement, leaving no one of
significance untouched.
As imperialism increased in scope and in depth, so too, in the colonies
themselves, the resistance mounted. Just as in Europe the global accumula-
tion that gathered the colonial domains into the world market economy was
supported and enabled by a culture giving empire ideological license, so in
the overseas imperium the massive political, economic, and military resis-
tance was carried forward and informed by an actively provocative and
challenging culture of resistance. This was a culture with a long tradition of
integrity and power in its own right, not simply a belated reactive response
to Western imperialism.
In Ireland, Calder says, the idea of murdering Gaels was from the start “as
part of a royal army or with royal approval, [considered] patriotic, heroic
and just” 74 The idea of English racial superiority became ingrained; so
humane a poet and gentleman as Edmund Spenser in his View of the Present
State of Ireland (15-96) was boldly proposing that since the Irish were barbarian
Scythians, most of them should be exterminated. Revolts against the English
naturally began early, and by the eighteenth century under Wolfe Tone and
Grattan the opposition had acquired an identity of its own, with organiza-
tions, idioms, rules. “Patriotism was coming into vogue” 75 during mid-
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223
century, Calder continues, which, with the extraordinary talents of Swift,
Goldsmith, and Burke, gave Irish resistance a discourse entirely its own.
Much but by no means all the resistance to imperialism was conducted in
the broad context of nationalism. “Nationalism” is a word that still signifies all
sorts of undifferentiated things, but it serves me quite adequately to identify
the mobilizing force that coalesced into resistance against an alien and
occupying empire on the part of peoples possessing a common history,
religion, and language. Yet for all its success — indeed because of its success —
in ridding many territories of colonial overlords, nationalism has remained a
deeply problematic enterprise. When it got people out on the streets to march
against the white master, nationalism was often led by lawyers, doctors, and
writers who were partly formed and to some degree produced by the colonial
power. The national bourgeoisies and their specialized elites, of which Fanon
speaks so ominously, in effect tended to replace the colonial force with a new
class-based and ultimately exploitative one, which replicated the old colonial
structures in new terms. There are states all across the formerly colonized
world that have bred pathologies of power, as Eqbal Ahmad has called them . 76
Also, the cultural horizons of a nationalism may be fatally limited by the
common history it presumes of colonizer and colonized. Imperialism after all
was a cooperative venture, and a salient trait of its modem form is that it was
(or claimed to be) an educational movement; it set out quite consciously to
modernize, develop, instruct, and civilize. The annals of schools, missions,
universities, scholarly societies, hospitals in Asia, Africa, Latin America,
Europe, and America are filled with this history, which over time established
so-called modernizing trends as much as it muted the harsher aspects of
imperialist domination. But at its center it preserved the nineteenth-century
divide between native and Westerner.
The great colonial schools, for example, taught generations of the native
bourgeoisie important truths about history, science, culture. Out of that
learning process millions grasped the fundamentals of modem life, yet
remained subordinate dependents of an authority based elsewhere than in
their lives. Since one of the purposes of colonial education was to promote the
history of France or Britain, that same education also demoted the native
history. Thus for the native, there were always the Englands, Frances,
Germanys, Hollands as distant repositories of the Word, despite the affinities
developed between native and “white man” during the years of productive
collaboration. Joyce’s Stephen Dedalus as he faces his English director of
studies is a famous example of someone who discovers this with unusual force:
The language we are speaking is his before it is mine. How different are
the words home, Christ, ale, master, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak
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or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar
and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not
made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets
in the shadow of his language . 77
Nationalism in Ireland, India, and Egypt, for example, was rooted in the
long-standing struggle for native rights and independence by nationalist
parties like the Sinn Fein, Congress, and Wafd. Similar processes occurred
in other parts of Africa and Asia. Nehru, Nasser, Sukarno, Nyerere, Nkru-
mah: the pantheon of Bandung flourished, in all its suffering and greatness,
because of the nationalist dynamic, which was culturally embodied in the
inspirational autobiographies, instructional manuals, and philosophical
meditations of these great nationalist leaders. An unmistakable patriarchal
cast can be discerned everywhere in classical nationalism, with delays and
distortions in women’s and minority rights (to say nothing of democratic
freedoms) that are still perceptible today. Crucial works like Panikar’s Asia
and Western Dominance, George Antonius’s The Arab Awakening, and the
various works of the Irish Revival were also produced out of classical
nationalism.
Within the nationalist revival, in Ireland and elsewhere, there were two
distinct political moments, each with its own imaginative culture, the second
unthinkable without the first. The first was a pronounced awareness of
European and Western culture as imperialism; this reflexive moment of
consciousness enabled the African, Caribbean, Irish, Latin American, or
Asian citizen to assert the end of Europe’s cultural claim to guide and/or
instruct the non-European or non-mainland individual. Often this was first
done, as Thomas Hodgkin has argued, by “prophets and priests ,” 78 among
them poets and visionaries, versions perhaps of Hobsbawm’s “primitive
rebels." The second more openly liberationist moment occurred during the
dramatically prolonged Western imperial mission after World War Two in
various colonial regions, principally Algeria, Vietnam, Palestine, Ireland,
Guinea, and Cuba. Whether in the Indian constitution, or in statements of
Pan-Arabism and Pan-Africanism, or in its particularist forms such as
Pearse’s Gaelic or Senghor’s negritude, conventional nationalism was re-
vealed to be both insufficient and crucial, but only as a first step. Out of this
paradox comes the idea of liberation, a strong new post-nationalist theme
that had been implicit in the works of Connolly, Garvey, Marti, Mariategi,
Cabral, and Du Bois, for instance, but required the propulsive infusion of
theory and even of armed, insurrectionary militancy to bring it forward
clearly.
Let us look again at the literature of the first of these moments, that of
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Yeats ami Decolonization
22 /
anti-imperialist resistance. If there is anything that radically distinguishes
the imagination of anti-imperialism, it is the primacy of the geographical
element. Imperialism after all is an act of geographical violence through
which virtually every space in the world is explored, charted, and finally
brought under control. For the native, the history of colonial servitude is
inaugurated by loss of the locality to the outsider, its geographical identity
must thereafter be searched for and somehow restored. Because of the
presence of the colonizing outsider, the land is recoverable at first only
through the imagination.
Let me give three examples of how imperialism’s complex yet firm geo-
graphical morte main moves from the general to the specific. The most
general is presented in Crosby’s Ecological Imperialism. Crosby says that wher-
ever they went Europeans immediately began to change the local habitat;
their conscious aim was to transform territories into images of what they had
left behind. This process was never-ending, as a huge number of plants,
animals, and crops as well as building methods gradually turned the colony
into a new place, complete with new diseases, environmental imbalances,
and traumatic dislocations for the overpowered natives . 79 A changed ecology
also introduced a changed political system. In the eyes of the later nationalist
poet or visionary, this alienated the people from their authentic traditions,
ways of life, and political organizations. A great deal of romantic mythmak-
ing went into these nationalist versions of how imperialism alienated the
land, but we must not doubt the extent of the actual changes wrought.
A second example is the rationalizing projects of long-standing territorial
possession, which seek routinely to make land profitable and at the same
time to integrate it with an external rule. In his book Uneven Development the
geographer Neil Smith brilliantly formulates how capitalism historically has
produced a particular kind of nature and space, an unequally developed
landscape that integrates poverty with wealth, industrial urbanization with
agricultural diminishment. The culmination of this process is imperialism,
which dominates, classifies, and universally commodifies all space under the
aegis of the metropolitan center. Its cultural analogue is late-nineteenth-
century commercial geography, whose perspectives (for example in the
work of Mackinder and Chisolm) justified imperialism as the result of
“natural” fertility or infertility, available sea-lanes, permanently differenti-
ated zones, territories, climates, and peoples . 80 Thus is accomplished “the
universality of capitalism,” which is “the differentiation of national space
according to the territorial division of labor .” 81
Following Hegel, Marx, and Lukacs, Smith calls the production of this
scientifically “natural” world a second nature. To the anti-imperialist imagi-
nation, our space at home in the peripheries has been usurped and put to use
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Il6 RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
by outsiders for their purpose. It is therefore necessary to seek out, to map,
to invent, or to discover a third nature, not pristine and pre-historical
(“Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,” says Yeats) but deriving from the
deprivations of the present. The impulse is cartographic, and among its most
striking examples are Yeats’s early poems collected in “The Rose,” Neruda’s
various poems charting the Chilean landscape, Cesaire on the Antilles, Faiz
on Pakistan, and Darwish on Palestine —
Restore to me the color of face
And the vsarmth of body,
The light of heart and eye,
The salt of bread and earth . . . the Motherland . 32
But — a third example — colonial space must be transformed sufficiently so
as no longer to appear foreign to the imperial eye. More than any other of
its colonies, Britain’s Ireland was subjected to innumerable metamorphoses
through repeated settling projects and, in culmination, its virtual incorpora-
tion in 1801 through the Act of Union. Thereafter an Ordnance Survey of
Ireland was ordered in 1824 whose goal was to anglicize the names, redraw
the land boundaries to permit valuation of property (and further expropria-
tion of land in favor of English and “seignorial” families), and permanently
subjugate the population. The survey was carried out almost entirely by
English personnel, which, as Mary Hamer has cogently argued, had the
“immediate effect of defining the Irish as incompetent [and] , . . depressing
their] national achievement.” 83 One of Brian Friel’s most powerful plays,
Translations (1980), deals with the shattering effect of the Ordnance Survey
on the indigenous inhabitants. “In such a process,” Hamer continues, “the
colonized is typically [supposed to be] passive and spoken for, does not
control its own representation but is represented in accordance with a
hegemonic impulse by which it is constructed as a stable and unitary en-
tity.” 84 And what was done in Ireland was also done in Bengal or, by the
French, in Algeria.
One of the first tasks of the culture of resistance was to reclaim, rename,
and reinhabit the land. And with that came a whole set of further assertions,
recoveries, and identifications, all of them quite literally grounded on this
poetically projected base. The search for authenticity, for a more congenial
national origin than that provided by colonial history, for a new pantheon
of heroes and (occasionally) heroines, myths, and religions — these too are
made possible by a sense of the land reappropriated by its people. And along
with these nationalistic adumbrations of the decolonized identity, there
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Yeats and Decolonization
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always goes an almost magically inspired, quasi-alchemical redevelopment
of the native language.
Yeats is especially interesting here. With Caribbean and some African
writers he expresses the predicament of sharing a language with the colonial
overlord, and of course he belongs in many important ways to the Protestant
Ascendancy, whose Irish loyalties were confused, to put it mildly, if not in
his case quite contradictory. There is a fairly logical progression from Yeats’s
early Gaelicism, with its Celtic preoccupations and themes, to his later
systematic mythologies as set down in programmatic poems like “Ego Do-
minus Tuus” and in the treatise A Vision. For Yeats the overlapping he knew
existed of his Irish nationalism with the English cultural heritage, which
both dominated and empowered him, was bound to cause tension, and one
may speculate that it was the pressure of this urgently political and secular
tension that caused him to try to resolve it on a “higher,” that is, non-
political level. The deeply eccentric and aestheticized histories he produced
in A Vision and the later quasi-religious poems elevate the tension to an
extra-worldly level, as if Ireland were best taken over, so to speak, at a level
above that of the ground.
Seamus Deane, in Celtic Revivals, the most interesting and brilliant account
of Yeats’s super-terrestrial idea of revolution, has suggested that Yeats’s
early and invented Ireland was “amenable to his imagination . . . [whereas]
he ended by finding an Ireland recalcitrant to it” Whenever Yeats tried to
reconcile his occultist views with an actual Ireland — as in “The Statues” —
the results are strained, Deane says correctly. 85 Because Yeats’s Ireland was
a revolutionary country, he could use its backwardness as a source for a
radically disturbing, disruptive return to spiritual ideals lost in an over-
developed modern Europe. In such dramatic realities as the Easter 1916
uprising, Yeats also saw the breaking of a cycle of endless, perhaps finally
meaningless recurrence, as symbolized by the apparently limitless travails of
Cuchulain. Deane’s theory is that the birth of an Irish national identity
coincides for Yeats with the breaking of the cycle, although it also under-
scores, and reinforces in Yeats himself, the colonialist British attitude of a
specific Irish national character. Thus Yeats’s return to mysticism and his
recourse to fascism, Deane says perceptively, underline the colonial predica-
ment also expressed, for example, in V. S. Naipaul’s representations of India,
that of a culture indebted to the mother country for its own self and for a
sense of “Englishness” and yet turning toward the colony: “such a search for
a national signature becomes colonial, on account of the different histories
of the two islands. The greatest flowering of such a search has been Yeats’s
poetry.” 86 Far from representing an outdated nationalism, Yeats’s wilful
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
mysticism and incoherence embody a revolutionary potential, and the poet
insists “that Ireland should retain its culture by keeping awake its conscious-
ness of metaphysical questions,” as Deane puts it. 87 In a world from which
the harsh strains of capitalism have removed thought and reflection, a poet
who can stimulate a sense of the eternal and of death into consciousness is
the true rebel, a figure whose colonial diminishments spur him to a negative
apprehension of his society and of “civilized” modernity.
This rather Adorno-esque formulation of Yeats’s quandary is of course
powerfully attractive. Yet perhaps it is weakened by its wanting to render
Yeats more heroic than a crudely political reading would have suggested,
and excuse his unacceptable and indigestible reactionary politics — his out-
right fascism, his fantasies of old homes and families, his incoherently occult
divagations — by translating them into an instance of Adorno’s “negative
dialectic.” As a small corrective, we might more accurately see Yeats as an
exacerbated example of the nativist phenomenon which flourished else-
where (e.g., negritude) as a result of the colonial encounter.
True, the physical, geographical connections are closer between England
and Ireland than between England and India, or between France and Algeria
or Senegal. But the imperial relationship is there in all cases. Irish people can
never be English any more than Cambodians or Algerians can be French.
This it Seems to me was always the case in every colonial relationship,
because it is the first principle that a clear-cut and absolute hierarchical
distinction should remain constant between ruler and ruled, whether or not
the latter is white. Nativism, alas, reinforces the distinction even while
revaluating the weaker or subservient partner. And it has often led to
compelling but demagogic assertions about a native past, narrative or actual-
ity that stands free from worldly time itself One sees this in such enterprises
as Senghor's negritude, or in the Rastafarian movement, or in the Garveyite
back to Africa project for American Blacks, or in the rediscoveries of various
unsullied, pre-colonial Muslim essences.
The tremendous ressentiment in nativism aside (for example, injalal Ali
Ahmad's Occidentosis, an influential Iranian tract published in 1978 that blames
the West for most evils in the world), there are two reasons for rejecting, or
at least reconceiving, the nativist enterprise. To say, as Deane does, that it
is incoherent and yet, by its negation of politics and history, also heroically
revolutionary seems to me is to fall into the nativist position as if it were the
only choice for a resisting, decolonizing nationalism. But we have evidence
of its ravages: to accept nativism is to accept the consequences of imperial-
ism, the racial, religious, and political divisions imposed by imperialism
itself. To leave the historical world for the metaphysics of essences like
negritude, Irishness, Islam, or Catholicism is to abandon history for essentiali-
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Yeats and Decolonization
229
zations that have the power to turn human beings against each other; often
this abandonment of the secular world has led to a sort of millenarianism if
the movement has had a mass base, or it has degenerated into small-scale
private craziness, or into an unthinking acceptance of stereotypes, myths,
animosities, and traditions encouraged by imperialism. Such programs are
hardly what great resistance movements had imagined as their goals.
A useful way of getting a better hold of this analytically is to look at an
analysis of the same problem done in the African context: Wole Soyinka’s
withering critique of nigritude published in 1976. Soyinka notes that the
concept of nigritude is the second, inferior term in an opposition — European
versus African — that “accepted the dialectical structure of European ideo-
logical confrontations but borrowed from the very components of its racist
syllogism.” 88 Thus Europeans are analytical, Africans “incapable of analyti-
cal thought. Therefore the African is not highly developed” whereas the
European is. The result is, according to Soyinka, that
nigritude trapped itself in what was primarily a defensive role, even
though its accents were strident, its syntax hyperbolic and its strategy
aggressive. . . . Nigritude stayed within a pre-set system of Eurocentric
intellectual analysis of both man and his society, and tried to re-define
the African and his society in those externalized terms. 89
We are left with the paradox that Soyinka himself articulates, that (he has
Fanon in mind) adoring the Negro is as “sick” as abominating him. And
while it is impossible to avoid the combative, assertive early stages in the
nativist identity — they always occur: Yeats’s early poetry is not only about
Ireland, but about Irishness — there is a good deal of promise in getting
beyond them, not remaining trapped in the emotional self-indulgence of
celebrating one’s own identity. There is first of all the possibility of discover-
ing a world not constructed out of warring essences. Second, there is the
possibility of a universalism that is not limited or coercive, which believing
that all people have only one single identity is — that all the Irish are only
Irish, Indians Indians, Africans Africans, and so on ad nauseam. Third, and
most important, moving beyond nativism does not mean abandoning nation-
ality, but it does mean thinking of local identity as not exhaustive, and
therefore not being anxious to confine oneself to one’s own sphere, with its
ceremonies of belonging, its built-in chauvinism, and its limiting sense of
security.
Nationality, nationalism, nativism: the progression is, I believe, more and
more constraining. In countries like Algeria and Kenya one can watch the
heroic resistance of a community partly formed out of colonial degradations,
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
leading to a protracted armed and cultural conflict with the imperial powers,
in turn giving way to a one-party state with dictatorial rule and, in the case
of Algeria, an uncompromising Islamic fundamentalist opposition. The
debilitating despotism of the Moi regime in Kenya can scarcely be said to
complete the liberationist currents of the Mau Mau uprising. No transfor-
mation of social consciousness here, but only an appalling pathology of
power duplicated elsewhere — in the Philippines, Indonesia, Pakistan, Zaire,
Morocco, Iran.
In any case nativism is not the only alternative. There is the possibility of
a more generous and pluralistic vision of the world, in which imperialism
courses on, as it were, belatedly in different forms (the North-South polarity
of our own time is one), and the relationship of domination continues, but
the opportunities for liberation are open. Even though there was an Irish
Free State by the end of his life in 1959, Yeats partially belonged to this
second moment, as shown by his sustained anti-British sentiment and the
anger and gaiety of his anarchically disturbing last poetry. In this phase
liberation, and not nationalist independence, is the new alternative, liberation
which by its very nature involves, in Fanon’s words, a transformation of
social consciousness beyond national'consciousness. 90
Looking at it from this perspective, then, Yeats’s slide into incoherence
and mysticism during the 1920s, his rejection of politics, and his arrogant if
charming espousal of fascism (or authoritarianism of an Italian or South
American kind) are not to be excused, not too quickly to be dialecticized
into the negative utopian mode. For one can quite easily situate and criticize
those unacceptable attitudes of Yeats without changing one’s view of Yeats
as a poet of decolonization.
This way beyond nativism is figured in the great turn at the climax of
Cdsaire’s Cahier d'un retour when the poet realizes that, after rediscovering
and re-experiencing his past, after re-entering the passions, horrors, and
circumstances of his history as a Black, after feeling and then emptying
himself of his anger, after accepting —
J'accepte . . . j’accepte . . . entierement, sans reserve
ma race qu’aucune ablution dhypsope et de lys meles ne pourrait purifier
ma race rongee de macule
ma race raisin mur pour pieds ivres 91
(I accept ... I accept . . . totally, without reservation
my race that no ablution of hyssop mixed with lilies could purify
my race pitted with blemishes
my race a ripe grape for drunken feet j
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Yeats and Decolonization
231
— after all this he is suddenly assailed by strength and life “comme un
taureau," and begins to understand that
il n'est point vrai que I'oeuvre de I'homme est finie
que nous n 'avons rien a faire au monde
que nous parasitons le monde
qu ’il suffit que nous nous mettions au pas du monde
mais I’oeuvre de I’homme vient seulment de commencer
et il reste a I’homme h conqubir toute interdiction
immobilisee aux coins de sa ferveur et aucune race
ne possede le monopole de la beaute, de ^intelligence, de la force
et il est place pour tous au rendez-vous de la conquete
et nous savons maintenant que le soleil toume
autour de notre terre klairant la parcelle qu'a fixe
notre volonte settle et que toute etoile chute de ciel
ett terre a notre commandement sans limite. 92
(for it is not true that the work of man is done
that we have no business being on earth
that we parasite the world
that it is enough for us to heel to the world
whereas the work has only begun
and man still must overcome all the interdictions
wedged in the recesses of his fervor and no race has a
monopoly on beauty, on intelligence, on strength
and there is room for everyone at the convocation of
conquest and we know now that the sun turns around our
earth lighting the parcel designated by our will alone
and that every star falls from sky to earth at our
omnipotent command.)
The striking phrases are “a conqu6rir toute interdiction immobilisee aux
coins de sa ferveur" and “le soleil . . . eclairant la parcelle qu’a fix6 notre
volonte seule.” You don’t give in to the rigidity and interdictions of self-
imposed limitations that come with race, moment, or milieu; instead you
move through them to an animated and expanded sense of “[le] rendez-vous
de la conquete,” which necessarily involves more than your Ireland, your
Martinique, your Pakistan.
I don’t mean to use Cesaire against Yeats (or Seamus Deane’s Yeats), but
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232 RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
rather more hilly to associate a major strand in Yeats’s poetry both with the
poetry of decolonization and resistance, and with the historical alternatives
to the nativist impasse. In many other ways Yeats is like other poets resisting
imperialism — in his insistence on a new narrative for his people, his anger
at England’s schemes for Irish partition (and enthusiasm for wholeness), the
celebration and commemoration of violence in bringing about a new order,
and the sinuous interweaving of loyalty and betrayal in the nationalist
setting. Yeats’s direct association with Parnell and O’Leary, with the Abbey
Theatre, with the Easter Uprising, bring to his poetry what R. P. Blackmur,
borrowing from Jung, calls “the terrible ambiguity of an immediate experi-
ence.” 95 Yeats’s work of the early 1910s has an uncanny resemblance to the
engagement and ambiguities of Darwish’s Palestinian poetry half a century
later, in its renderings of violence, of the overwhelming suddenness and
surprises of historical events, of politics and poetry as opposed to violence
and guns (see his marvelous lyric “The Rose and The Dictionary”), 94 of the
search for respites after the last border has been crossed, the last sky flown
in. “The holy centaurs of the hills are vanished,” says Yeats, “I have nothing
but the embittered sun.”
One feels in reading the great poems of that climactic period after the
Easter Uprising of 1916, like “Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen” or “Easter
1916,” and “September 1913,” not just the disappointments of life commanded
by “the greasy till” or the violence of roads and horses, of “weasels fighting
in a hole,” or the rituals of what has been called Blood Sacrifice poetry, but
also a terrible new beauty that changes the old political and moral landscape.
Like all poets of decolonization, Yeats struggles to announce the contours
of an imagined or ideal community, crystallized by its sense not only of itself
but also of its enemy. “Imagined community” is apt here, so long as we are
not obliged also to accept Benedict Anderson’s mistakenly linear periodiza-
tions. In the cultural discourses of decolonization, a great many languages,
histories, forms circulate. As Barbara Harlow has shown in Resistance Litera-
ture, the instability of time, which has to be made and remade by the people
and its leaders, is a theme one sees in all the genres — spiritual autobiogra-
phies, poems of protest, prison memoirs, didactic dramas of deliverance. The
shifts in Y eats’s accounts of his great cycles invoke this instability, as does
the easy commerce in his poetry between popular and formal speech, folk-
tale and learned writing. The disquiet of what T. S. Eliot calls the “cunning
history [and] contrived corridors” of time — the wrong turns, the overlap, the
senseless repetition, the occasionally glorious moment — furnishes Yeats, as
it does all the poets and men of letters of decolonization — Tagore, Senghor,
Cesaire — with stern martial accents, heroism, and the grinding persistence
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Yeats and Decolonization
2 33
of“the uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.” Thus the writer rises out
of his national environment and gains universal significance.
In the first volume of his memoirs, Pablo Neruda speaks of a writers’
congress in Madrid held in 1937 in defense of the Republic. “Priceless
replies” to the invitations “poured in from all over. One was from Yeats,
Ireland’s national poet; another, from Selma Lagerlof, the notable Swedish
writer. They were both too old to travel to a beleaguered city like Madrid,
which was steadily being pounded by bombs, but they rallied to the defense
of the Spanish Republic.”’ 5 Just as Neruda saw no difficulty in thinking of
himself as a poet who dealt both with internal colonialism in Chile and with
external imperialism throughout Latin America, we should think of Yeats,
I believe, as an Irish poet with more than strictly local Irish meaning and
applications. Neruda accepted him as a national poet representing the Irish
nation in its war against tyranny and, according to Neruda, Yeats responded
positively to that unmistakably anti-fascist call, despite his frequently cited
dispositions toward European fascism.
The resemblance between Neruda’s justly famous poem “El Pueblo” (in
the 1962 collection Plenos Poderes, translated by Alastair Reid, whose version
I have used, as Fully Empowered) and Yeats’s “The Fisherman” is striking: in
both poems the central figure is an anonymous man of the people, who in
his strength and loneliness is a mute expression of the people, a quality that
inspires the poet in his work. Yeats:
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple num.
All day I'd look in the face
What I had hoped 'twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality . 96
Neruda:
I knew that man, and when I could
when I still bad eyes in my bead,
when I still had a voice in my throat,
/ sought him among the tombs and I said to him,
pressing his am that still was not dust:
", Everything will pass, you will still be living.
You set fre to life.
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
You made vibat is yours. ’’
, So let ho one be perturbed when
I seem to be alone and am not alone;
I am not without company and I speak for all.
Someone is hearing me without knowing it,
But those I sing of those who know,
go on being bom and will overflow the world . 97
The poetic calling develops out of a pact made between people and poet;
hence the power of such invocations to an actual poem as those provided by
the figures both men seem to require.
The chain does not stop there, since Neruda goes on (in “Deber del
Poeta”) to claim that “through me, freedom and the sea/will call in answer
to the shrouded heart,” and Yeats in “The Tower” speaks of sending imagi-
nation forth “and calling] images and memories /From ruin or from ancient
trees .” 98 Because such protocols of exhortation and expansiveness are an-
nounced from under the shadow of domination, we may connect them with
the narrative of liberation depicted so memorably in Fanon’s Wretched of the
Earth. For whereas the divisions and separations of the colonial order freeze
the population’s captivity into a sullen torpor, “new outlets . . . engender
aims for the violence of colonized peoples .” 99 Fanon specifies the declara-
tions of rights, clamors for free speech and trades union demands; later, an
entirely new history unfolds as a revolutionary class of militants, drawn from
the ranks of the urban poor, outcasts, criminals, and declasses, takes to the
countryside, there slowly to form cells of armed activists, who return to the
city for the final stages of the insurgency.
The extraordinary power of Fanon’s writing is that it is presented as a
surreptitious counter- narrative to the above-ground force of the colonial
regime, which in the teleology of Fanon’s narrative is certain to be defeated.
The difference between Fanon and Yeats is that Fanon’s theoretical and
perhaps even metaphysical narrative of anti-imperialist decolonization is
marked throughout with the accents and inflections of liberation: this is far
more than a reactive native defensiveness, whose main problem (as Soyinka
analyzed it) is that it implicitly accepts, and does not go beyond, the basic
European versus non-European oppositions. Fanon’s is a discourse of that
anticipated triumph, liberation, that marks the second moment of decoloni-
zation. Yeats’s early work, by contrast, sounds the nationalist note and stands
at a threshold it cannot cross, although he sets a trajectory in common with
that of other poets of decolonization, like Neruda and Darwish, which he
could not complete, even though perhaps they could go further than he. One
might at least give him credit for adumbrating the liberationist and utopian
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Yeats and Decolonization
H5
revolutionism in his poetry that was belied and even cancelled out by his
later reactionary politics.
Yeats has often been cited in recent years as someone whose poetry
warned of nationalist excesses. He is quoted without attribution, for exam-
ple, in Gary Sick’s book on the Carter administration’s handling of the
Iranian hostage crisis 1979-1981 (All Fall Down )-, 160 and The New York Times
correspondent in Beirut in 1975"— 77, the late James Markham, quoted the
same passages from “The Second Coming” in an article on the onset of the
Lebanese civil war in 1976. “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold” is one
phrase. The other is “The best lack all conviction, while the worst/Are full
of passionate intensity.” Sick and Markham both write as American liberals
alarmed at the revolutionary tide sweeping through a Third World once
contained by Western power. Their use of Yeats is minatory: remain or-
derly, or you’re doomed to a frenzy you cannot control. As to how, in an
inflamed colonial situation, the colonized are supposed to hold the center,
neither Sick nor Markham tells us, but their presumption is that Yeats, in
any event, would oppose the anarchy of civil war. It is as if both men had
not thought to take the disorder back to the colonial intervention in the first
place — which is what Chinua Achebe did in 1979 in his great novel Things
Fall Apart . 101
The point is that Yeats is at his most powerful precisely as he imagines
and renders that very moment. It is helpful to remember that “the Anglo-
Irish conflict” with which Yeats’s poetic oeuvre is saturated was a “model of
twentieth-century wars of liberation.” 102 His greatest decolonizing works
concern the birth of violence, or the violent birth of change, as in “Leda and
the Swan,” instants when a blinding flash of simultaneity is presented to his
colonial eyes — the girl’s rape, and alongside that, the question “Did she put
on his knowledge with his power/Before the indifferent beak could let her
drop?” 103 Yeats situates himself at that juncrure where the violence of change
is unarguable but where the results of the violence beseech necessary, if not
always sufficient, reason. His greatest theme, in the poetry that culminates
in The Tower (1928), is how to reconcile the inevitable violence of the colonial
conflict with the everyday politics of an ongoing national struggle, and also
how to square the power of the various parties in the conflict with the
discourse of reason, persuasion, organization, and the requirements of po-
etry. Yeats’s prophetic perception that at some point violence cannot be
enough and that the strategies of politics and reason must come into play is,
to my knowledge, the first important announcement in the context of
decolonization of the need to balance violent force with an exigent political
and organizational process. Fanon’s assertion that liberation cannot be ac-
complished simply by seizing power (though “Even the wisest man grows
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
tense/With some sort of violence”) 104 comes almost half a century later.
That neither Yeats nor Fanon offers a prescription for making a transition
after decolonization to a period when a new political order achieves moral
hegemony is symptomatic of the difficulty that millions of people live with
today.
It is an amazing thing that the problem of Irish liberation not only has
continued longer than other comparable struggles, but is so often not re-
garded as being an imperial or nationalist issue; instead it is comprehended
as an aberration within the British dominions. Yet the facts conclusively
reveal otherwise. Since Spenser’s 15-96 tract on Ireland, a whole tradition of
British and European thought has considered the Irish to be a separate and
inferior race, usually unregenerately barbarian, often delinquent and primi-
tive. Irish nationalism for at least the last two hundred years is marked by
internecine struggles involving the land question, the Church, the nature of
parties and leaders. But dominating the movement is the attempt to regain
control of the land where, in the words of the 1916 proclamation that founded
the Irish Republic, “the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of
Ireland, and to the unfettered control of Irish destinies, [is] to be sovereign
and indefeasible.” 105
Yeats cannot be severed from this quest. Regardless of his astounding
genius, he contributed, as Thomas Flanagan puts it, “in Irish terms, and of
course in a singularly powerful and compelling manner, that process of
simultaneous abstraction and reification that, defiant of logic, is the heart
of nationalism.” 10 * 1 And to this work several generations of lesser writers also
contributed, articulating the expression of Irish identity as it attaches to the
land, to its Celtic origins, to a growing body of nationalist experiences and
leaders (Wolfe Tone, Connolly, Mitchel, Isaac Butt, O’Connell, the United
Irishmen, the Home Rule movement, and so on), and to a specifically
national literature. 107 Literary nationalism also retrospectively includes
many forerunners: Thomas Moore, early literary historians like the Abbe
McGeoghehan and Samuel Ferguson, James Clarence Mangan, the Orange-
Young Ireland movement, Standish O’Grady. In the poetic, dramatic, and
scholarly work of today’s Field Day Company (Seamus Heaney, Brian Friel,
Seamus Deane, Tom Paulin) and of the literary historians Declan Kiberd
and W. J. McCormack, these “revivals” of the Irish national experience are
brilliantly reimagined and take the nationalist adventure to new forms of
verbal expression. 1 08
The essential Yeatsian themes sound through the earlier and later liter-
ary work: the problem of assuring the marriage of knowledge to power, of
understanding violence; interestingly they are also sounded in Gramsci’s
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Yeats and Decolonization
2 37
roughly contemporary work, undertaken and elaborated in a different con-
text In the Irish colonial setting, Yeats seems best able to pose and re-pose
the question provocatively, using his poetry, Blackmur says, as a technique
of trouble. IOT And he goes further in the great poems of summation and
vision like “Among School Children,” “The Tower,” “A Prayer for My
Daughter,” “Under Ben Bulben,” and “The Circus Animals’ Desertion.”
These are poems of genealogy and recapitulation, of course: telling and
retelling the story of his life from early nationalist turbulence to the status
of a senator walking through a classroom and thinking of how Leda
figured in all their pasts, or a loving father thinking about his child, or a
senior artist trying to achieve equanimity of vision, or finally, as a long-
time craftsman somehow surviving the loss (desertion) of his powers, Yeats
reconstructs his own life poetically as an epitome of the national life.
These poems reverse the reductive and slanderous encapsulation of Irish
actualities which, according to Joseph Leerssen’s learned book Mere Irish and
Fior-Ghael, had been the fate of the Irish at the hands of English writers for
eight centuries, displacing ahistorical rubrics like “potato-eaters,” or “bog-
dwellers,” or “shanty people .” 110 Yeats’s poetry joins his people to its history,
the more imperatively in that as father, or as “sixty-year-old smiling public
man,” or as son and husband, the poet assumes that the narrative and the
density of personal experience are equivalent to the experience of his
people. The references in the closing strophes of “Among School Children”
suggest that Yeats was reminding his audience that history and the nation
are not separable, any more than a dancer is separate from the dance.
The drama of Yeats’s accomplishment in restoring a suppressed history
and rejoining the nation to it is expressed well by Fanon’s description of the
situation Yeats had to overcome: “Colonialism is not satisfied merely with
holding a people in its grip and emptying the native’s brain of all form and
content. By a kind of perverted logic, it turns to the past of the people, and
distorts, disfigures and destroys it .” 111 Yeats rises from the level of personal
and folk experience to that of national archetype without losing the im-
mediacy of the former or the stature of the latter. And his unerring choice
of genealogical fables and figures speaks to another aspect of colonialism as
Fanon described it: its capacity for separating the individual from his or her
own instinctual life, breaking the generative lineaments of the national
identity:
On the unconscious plane, colonialism therefore did not seek to be
considered by the native as a gently loving mother who proteas her
child from a hostile environment, but rather as a mother who unceas-
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
238
ingly restrains her fundamentally perverse offspring from managing to
commit suicide and from giving free rein to its evil instincts. The
colonial mother protects her child from itself, from its ego, and from its
physiology, its biology, and its own unhappiness which is its very
essence.
In such a situation the claims of the native intellectual [and poet] are
not a luxury but a necessity in any coherent program. The native
intellectual who takes up arms to defend his nation’s legitimacy, who
is willing to strip himself naked to study the history of his body, is
obliged to dissect the heart of his people . 112
No wonder that Yeats instructed Irish poets to
Scorn the sort ncrw growing up
All out of shape from toe to top,
Their unremembering hearts and beads
Base-born products of base beds.
That in the process Yeats ended up creating not individuals but types that
“cannot quite overcome the abstractions from which they sprang,” again
according to Blackmur , 114 is true insofar as the decolonizing program and
its background in the history of Ireland’s subjugation are ignored, as
Blackmur was wont to do; his interpretations are masterful yet ahistorical.
When the colonial realities are taken into account, we get insight and
experience, and not merely “the allegorical simulacrum churned with
action.” 11 *
Yeats’s full system of cycles, pernes, and gyres seems important only as
it symbolizes his efforts to lay hold of a distant and yet orderly reality as a
refuge from the turbulence of his immediate experience. When in the
Byzantium poems he asks to be gathered into the artifice of eternity, the
need for respite from age and from what he would later call “the struggle
of the fly in marmalade” is even more starkly at work. Otherwise it is difficult
to read most of his poetry and not feel that Swift’s devastating anger and
genius were harnessed by Yeats to lift the burdens of Ireland’s colonial
afflictions. True, he stopped short of imagining full political liberation, but
he gave us a major international achievement in cultural decolonization
nonetheless.
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The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition
2 39
( iv )
The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition
T he Irish experience and other colonial histories in other parts of the
contemporary world testify to a new phenomenon: a spiral away and
extrapolation from Europe and the West. I am not saying that only native
writers are part of this transformation, but the process begins most produc-
tively in peripheral, off-center work that gradually enters the West and then
requires acknowledgement.
As recently as thirty years ago, few European or American universities
devoted curricular attention to African literature. Now a healthy interest is
taken in the works of Bessie Head, Alex La Guma, Wole Soyinka, Nadine
Gordimer, J. M. Coetzee as literature that speaks independently of an
African experience. Similarly it is no longer possible to ignore the work of
Anta Diop, Paulin Hountondjii, V. Y. Mudimbe, Ali Mazrui in even the most
cursory survey of African history, politics, and philosophy. True, an ambi-
ance of polemic surrounds this work, but that is only because one cannot
look at African writing except as embedded in its political circumstances, of
which the history of imperialism and resistance to it is surely one of the most
important. This is not to say that African culture is any less cultural than,
say, French or British culture, but that it is harder to render invisible the
politics of African culture. “Africa” is still a site of contention, as we can
tell when we note that its scholars, like those of the Middle East, are put
into categories based on the old imperialist politics — pro-liberation, anti-
apartheid, and so on. A set of alliances, or intellectual formations, thus
connects the English work of Basil Davidson with the politics of Amflcar
Cabral, for example, to produce oppositional and independent scholarship.
Nevertheless, many constituent parts of the West’s major cultural forma-
tions, of which this “peripheral” work is one, have been historically hidden in
and by imperialism’s consolidating vision. One is reminded of Maupassant
enjoying a daily lunch at the Eiffel Tower because it was the only place in Paris
where he did not have to look at the imposing structure. Even now, since most
accounts ofEuropean cultural history take little notice of the empire, and the
great novelists especially are analyzed as if they were completely aloof from it,
today’s scholar and critic is accustomed to accept without noticing their
imperial attitudes and references along with their authoritative centrality.
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
Yet it bears repeating that no matter how apparently complete the domi-
nance of an ideology or social system, there are always going to be parts of
the social experience that it does not cover and control. From these parts
very frequently comes opposition, both self-conscious and dialectical. This
is not as complicated as it sounds. Opposition to a dominant structure arises
out of a perceived, perhaps even militant awareness on the part of individu-
als and groups outside and inside it that, for example, certain of its policies
are wrong. As the major studies of Gordon K. Lewis (Slavery, Imperialism, and
Freedom) and Robin Blackburn (The Overthrow of Colonial Slavery, 1776-184$)
show, 116 an extraordinary amalgam of metropolitan individuals and move-
ments — millenarians, revivalists, do-gooders, political radicals, cynical
planters, and canny politicians — contributed to the decline and end of the
slave trade by the 1840s. And far from there being a single unopposed British
colonial interest running directly from, say, the Hanoverians to Queen
Victoria, historical research that might be called revisionist or oppositional
has shown a variegated contest of interests. Scholars like Lewis, Blackburn,
Basil Davidson, Terence Ranger, and E. P. Thompson among others pre-
mised their work on the paradigm given by the cultural and political resis-
tance within imperialism. Thus British historians of colonial India and Africa,
for example, came to write oppositional histories of those territories in
sympathetic alliance with local forces there, cultural as well as political, who
were considered nationalist and anti-imperialist. As Thomas Hodgkin notes,
having explained the rise and subsequent effects of imperialism, these intel-
lectuals tried to show “how this entire system of relationships, and the
attitudes arising therefrom, can be abolished or transformed." 117
A distinction between anti-colonialism and anti-imperialism needs
quickly to be made. There was a lively European debate dating from at least
the mid-eighteenth century on the merits and demerits of holding colonies.
Behind it were the earlier positions of Bartolom6 de las Casas, Francisco de
Vitoria, Francisco Suarez, Camoens, and the Vatican, on the rights of native
peoples and European abuses. Most French Enlightenment thinkers, among
them Diderot and Montesquieu, subscribed to the Abbe Raynal’s opposition
>to slavery and colonialism; similar views were expressed by Johnson, Cow-
per, and Burke, as well as by Voltaire, Rousseau, and Bemardin de St. Pierre.
(A useful compilation of their thoughts is in Marcel Merle, L’Anticolonialisme
Europeen de Las Casas a Karl Marx .) 116 During the nineteenth century, if we
exclude rare exceptions like the Dutch writer Multatuli, debate over colo-
nies usually turned on their profitability, their management and mismanage-
ment, and on theoretical questions such as whether and how colonialism
might be squared with laissez-faire or tariff policies; an imperialist and Euro-
centric framework is implicitly accepted. Much of the discussion is both
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The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition
241
obscure, and, as Harry Bracken and others have shown, ambiguous, even
contradictory on the deeper questions concerning the ontological status,
as it were, of European domination of non-Europeans. 119 Liberal anti-
colonialists, in other words, take the humane position that colonies and
slaves ought not too severely to be ruled or held, but — in the case of
Enlightenment philosophers — do not dispute the fundamental superiority of
Western man or, in some cases, of the white race.
This view insinuated itself into the heart of the nineteenth-century disci-
plines and discourses dependent on knowledge observed and collected
within the colonial setting. 120 But the period of decolonization is different.
It is a matter of a changing cultural situation rather than completely distinct
periods: just as nationalist or anti-imperial resistance in the colonies gradu-
ally becomes more and more noticeable, so too do a wildly contradictory
number of anti-imperialist forces. One of the earliest and perhaps the most
famous of the systematic European critiques — -J. A. Hobson’s Imperialism: A
Study (1902) — attacks imperialism for its heartless economics, its export of
capital, its alliance with ruthless forces, and its facade of well-meaning
“civilizing” pretexts. Yet the book offers no critique of the notion of the
“lower races,” an idea Hobson finds acceptable. 121 Similar views were ad-
vanced by Ramsay MacDonald, certainly a critic of British imperialist prac-
tices but not opposed to imperialism as such.
No one has studied the anti-imperialist movement in Britain and France
better than A. P. Thornton (The Imperial Idea and Its Enemies), Bernard Porter
(Critics of Empire), and Raoul Girardet in his L 'Idee caloniale en France. Two
main characteristics mark their summaries: certainly there were late-
nineteenth-century intellectuals (Wilfrid Scawen Blunt and William Mor-
ris) who were totally opposed to imperialism, but they were far from influ-
ential; many of those who were, like Mary Kingsley and the Liverpool
school, were self-described imperialists and jingoists yet remorselessly se-
vere about the abuses and cruelties of the system. In other words, there was
no overall condemnation of imperialism until — and this is my point — after
native uprisings were too far gone to be ignored or defeated.
(A footnote to this is worth registering: like Tocqueville on Algeria,
European intellectuals were prone to attack the abuses of rival empires,
while either mitigating or excusing the practices of their own. 122 This is the
reason why I insist both on how modern empires replicate one another,
despite their disclaimers about being different, and on the necessity of a
rigorously anti-imperialist position. The United States was routinely turned
to by many nationalist parries and leaders in the Third World because,
through World War Two, it was openly anti-imperialist. As late as the ipyos
and early 1960s, U.S. policy on Algeria shifted such as to alter the cordiality
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242 RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
of Franco-American relations quite considerably, all because the United
States disapproved of French colonialism. Yet in general the United States
after World War Two considered itself responsible for many parts of the
Third World which the British and French had evacuated [Vietnam, of
course, is the main instance], 123 and, because of an exceptional history based
on the legitimacy of an anti-colonial revolution, largely exempt from the
charge that in its own way it began to resemble Britain and France. Doc-
trines of cultural exceptionalism are altogether too abundant.)
The second characteristic, especially brought out in Girardet, is that only
after nationalists first took the lead in the imperial territories, then expatriate
intellectuals and activists, did there develop a significant anti-colonial move-
ment in the metropolis. To Girardet writers like Aimd C6saire and then
Fanon represent a somewhat suspicious “revolutionary messianism,” but
they did spur Sartre and other Europeans openly to oppose French colonial
policy in Algeria and Indochina during the i9yos. 124 From those initiatives
came others: humanist opposition to colonial practices like torture and
deportation, a new awareness of the global end-of-empire era and, with it,
redefinitions of national purpose, and, not least in the Cold War years,
various defenses of the “Free World” that entailed winning over post-
colonial natives via cultural journals, trips, and seminars. A far from negligi-
ble part was played by the Soviet Union and by the United Nations, not
always in good faith, and in the case of the former not for altruistic reasons;
nearly every successful Third World liberation movement after World War
Two was helped by the Soviet Union’s counter-balancing influence against
the United States, Britain, France, Portugal, and Holland.
Most histories of European aesthetic modernism leave out the massive
infusions of non-European cultures into the metropolitan heartland during
the early years of this century, despite the patently important influence they
had on modernist artists like Picasso, Stravinsky, and Matisse, and on the
very fabric of a society that largely believed itself to be homogenously white
and Western. In the interwar period students from India, Senegal, Vietnam,
and the Caribbean flocked to London and Paris; 125 journals, reviews, and
political associations formed — one thinks of the pan-African congresses in
England, magazines like Cri des tiegres, parties like the Union des Travail-
leurs N&gres established by expatriates, dissidents, exiles, and refugees, who
paradoxically work better in the heart of the empire than in its far-flung
domains, or of the invigoration provided African movements by the Harlem
Renaissance. 126 A common anti-imperialist experience was felt, with new
associations between Europeans, Americans, and non-Europeans, and they
transformed disciplines and gave voice to new ideas that unalterably
changed that structure of attitude and reference which had endured for
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The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition 243
generations within European culture. The cross-fertilization between Afri-
can nationalism as represented by George Padmore, Nkrumah, C.L.R. James
on the one hand, and, on the other the emergence of a new literary style in
the works of C6saire, Senghor, poets of the Harlem Renaissance like Claude
McKay and Langston Hughes, is a central part of the global history of
modernism.
A huge and remarkable adjustment in perspective and understanding is
required to take account of the contribution to modernism of decolonization,
resistance culture, and the literature of opposition to imperialism. Although,
as I said, the adjustment has still not fully taken place, there are good reasons
for thinking that it has started. Many defenses of the West today are in fact
defensive, as if to acknowledge that the old imperial ideas have been seri-
ously challenged by the works, traditions, and cultures to which poets,
scholars, political leaders from Africa, Asia, and the Caribbean have contrib-
uted so greatly. Moreover, what Foucault has called subjugated knowledges
have erupted across the field once controlled, so to speak, by the Judeo-
Christian tradition; and those of us who live in the West have been deeply
affected by the remarkable outpouring of first-rate literature and scholarship
emanating from the post-colonial world, a locale no longer “one of the dark
places of the earth” in Conrad’s famous description, but once again the site
of vigorous cultural effort To speak today of Gabriel Garcia Marquez,
Salman Rushdie, Carlos Fuentes, Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, Faiz
Ahmad Faiz, and many others like them is to speak of a fairly novel
emergent culture unthinkable without the earlier work of partisans like
C.L.R. James, George Antonius, Edward Wilmot Blyden, W.E.B. Du Bois,
Jose Marti.
I want to discuss one fairly discrete aspect of this powerful impinge-
ment — that is, the work of intellectuals from the colonial or peripheral
regions who wrote in an “imperial” language, who felt themselves organi-
cally related to the mass resistance to empire, and who set themselves the
revisionist, critical task of dealing frontally with the metropolitan culture,
using the techniques, discourses, and weapons of scholarship and criticism
once reserved exclusively for the European. Their work is, on its merits,
only apparently dependent (and by no means parasitic) on mainstream
Western discourses; the result of its originality and creativity has been the
transformation of the very terrain of the disciplines.
A general, quasi-theoretical account of the phenomenon I shall be dis-
cussing occurs in Raymond Williams’s Culture (1981). In the chapter on what
he calls “Formations,” Williams begins by discussing guilds, professions,
clubs, and movements, and then proceeds to the more complex issues of
schools, factions, dissidents, and rebels. All these, he says, “relate to develop-
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
ments within a single national social order.” In the twentieth century,
however, new international or para-national formations occur, and they
have tended to be avant-garde in the metropolitan center. To some extent
these para-formations — Paris 1890-1930, New York 1940-1970 — are the result
of newly effective market forces that internationalize culture — for instance,
“Western music,” twentieth-century art, European literature. But more in-
terestingly “contributors to avant-garde movements were immigrants to
such a metropolis, not only from outlying national regions but from other
and smaller national cultures, now seen as culturally provincial in relation
to the metropolis.” Williams’s example is Apollinaire, although he writes of
“the sociology of metropolitan encounters and associations between immi-
grants” and mainstream groups, which “create especially favorable support-
ive conditions for dissident groups.” 127
Williams concludes by saying that it is still not certain whether such
encounters produce effects of “sharp and even violent breaks with tradi-
tional practices (a dissidence or revolt rather than a literal avant-garde)” or
whether they are absorbed into and become a part of the “dominant culture
of a succeeding metropolitan and paranational period.” Yet if we historicize '
and politicize Williams’s argument at the outset and then put it into the
historical setting of imperialism and anti-imperialism, a number of factors
become clear. First, anti-imperialist intellectual and scholarly work done by
writers from the peripheries who have immigrated to or are visiting the
metropolis is usually an extension into the metropolis of large-scale mass
movements. One vivid expression of this occurred during the Algerian war,
when the FLN called France the Seventh Wilaya, the other six constituting
Algeria proper, 128 thus moving the contest over decolonization from the
peripheries to the center. Second, these incursions concern the same areas
of experience, culture, history, and tradition hitherto commanded unilater-
ally by the metropolitan center. When Fanon wrote his books, he intended
to talk about the experience of colonialism as seen by a F renchman, from
within a French space hitherto inviolable and now invaded and re-examined
critically by a dissenting native. There is thus an overlap and interdepen-
dence that cannot theoretically be described as only the reactive assertion
of a separate colonial or native identity. Last, these voyages in represent, I
believe, a still unresolved contradiction or discrepancy within metropolitan
culture, which through co-optation, dilution, and avoidance partly acknowl-
edges and partly refuses the effort.
The voyage in, then, constitutes an especially interesting variety of hybrid
cultural work. And that it exists at all is a sign of adversarial internationaliza-
tion in an age of continued imperial structures, No longer does the logos
dwell exclusively, as it were, in London and Paris. No longer does history
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The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition 245
run unilaterally, as Hegel believed, from east to west, or from south to north,
becoming more sophisticated and developed, less primitive and backward as
it goes. Instead, the weapons of criticism have become part of the historical
legacy of empire, in which the separations and exclusions of “divide and
rule” are erased and surprising new configurations spring up.
Each of the four texts I want to discuss belongs specifically to a particular
historical moment the first two are C.L.R. James’s The Black Jacobins, pub-
lished in 1938, and, appearing at almost the same time, George Antonius’s
The Arab Awakening, The first is about a late-eighteenth-cenrury Black Carib-
bean insurrection, the other about a recent Arab one; both deal with events
in the past in whose pattern, protagonist, and antagonist the writer is con-
cerned to detect a native or colonial reality that was ignored or betrayed by
Europe. Both writers are brilliant stylists, remarkable men (and in the case
of James a sportsman), whose early formation in British colonial schools
brought forth a wonderful appreciation of English culture as well as serious
disagreements with it. Both books now seem remarkably prescient, James
forecasting an unbroken history of agonized and still profoundly unsettled
Caribbean life, Antonius just as precisely forecasting today’s front-page
stories and shocking televised scenes from the Middle East, as the situation
in Palestine-Israel remains fraught, having already resolved itself adversely
from the Arab point of view with the establishment of Israel in 1948, an
eventuality predicted with dire forebodings by Antonius ten years before the
fact.
Whereas the James and Antonius books were intended as serious works
of scholarship and advocacy addressed from within a national movement for
independence to a general audience, my other two works, Ranajit Guha’s
A Rule of Property far Bengal (1963) and S. H. Alatas’s The Myth of the Lazy Native
(1977), are post-colonial and specialist, addressing a smaller audience about
more specific issues. Both these books, the former by a Bengali political
economist, the latter by a Malaysian Muslim historian and social theorist,
show their authors’ assiduous archival research and scrupulously up-to-date
documentation, argument, and generalization.
Guha’s book is, in a manner that later post-structuralist writers (including
Guha himself) recognize, an archeological and deconstructive study of how
the 1826 Act of Permanent Settlement for Bengal — according to which the
British regulated rents and revenues in Bengal with unvarying precision —
derived from a complex background ofPhysiocratic and Ideological thought
in Europe that had been pressed into service in Bengal in the late eighteenth
century by Philip Francis. Alatas’s book, as startlingly original in its own way
as Guha’s, also details how European colonialism created an object, in this
case the lazy native, who performed a crucial function in the calculations
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246
RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
and advocacies of what Alatas calls colonial capitalism. This native, sub-
jected to astringent rules and an exacting discipline, was meant, in the words
of Sinbaldo de Mas, a Spanish official who in 1843 was entrusted with keeping
the Philippines as a Spanish colony, to be sustained “in an intellectual and
moral state that despite their numerical superiority they may weigh less
politically than a bar of gold’’; 129 this native was talked about, analyzed,
abused, and worked, fed with bad food and with opium, separated from his
or her natural environment, covered with a discourse whose purpose was to
keep him industrious and subordinate. Thus, says Alatas, “Gambling, opium,
inhuman labour conditions, one-sided legislation, acquisition of tenancy
rights belonging to the people, forced labour, were all in one way or another
woven into the fabric of colonial ideology and given an aura of respectabil-
ity. Those outside it were derided.” 130
The contrast between James and Antonius on the one hand and Guha and
Alatas on the other is not only that the earlier writers were more immedi-
ately involved in contemporary politics, whereas the later two care a great
deal about scholarly disputes in post-colonial India and Malaysia, but that
post-colonial history itself has changed the terms, indeed the very nature of'
the argument. For James and Antonius the world of discourse inhabited by
natives in the Caribbean and the Arab Orient during the 1930s was honorably
dependent upon the West. Toussaint L’Ouverrure, says James, could not
have argued the way he did were it not .for the Abbe Raynal, other Ency-
clopedists, and the great Revolution itself
in the hour of danger Toussaint, uninstructed as he was, could find the
language and accent of Diderot, Rousseau and Raynal, of Mirabeau,
Robespierre and Danton. And in one respect he excelled them all. For
even these masters of the spoken and written word, owing to the class
complications of their society, too often had to pause, to hesitate, to
qualify. Toussaint could defend the freedom of the blacks without
reservation, and this gave to his declaration a strength and a single-
mindedness rare in the great documents of the time. The French
bourgeoisie could not understand it. Rivers of blood were to flow before
they understood that elevated as was his tone Toussaint had written
neither bombast nor rhetoric but the simple and sober truth. 131
In this wonderful description of a man completely internalizing the literal
truth of the universalist sentiments propounded by the European Enlighten-
ment, James shows Toussaint’s sincerity and also his latent flaw, his willing-
ness to trust European declarations, to see them as literal intentions rather
than class and history-determined remarks of interests and groups.
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The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition 247
Antonius developed much the same theme; his chronicle of the Arab
awakening, nurtured by Britain early in our own century, focuses on how the
Arabs, after liberating themselves from the Ottomans in 1917 and 1918, took
British promises for Arab independence as the literal truth. Antonius’s ac-
count of Sherif Hussein’s correspondence with Sir Henry McMahon, in
which the British official promised his people independence and sover-
eignty, corresponds to James’s description of how Toussaint grasped and
acted upon the Declarations of the Rights of Man. Yet for Antonius, who
writes as a partisan of both the Arabs and the British — a classic case of
interdependence if there ever was one — it is deliberate subterfuge, ascribed
neither to classes nor to history but to dishonor, which for him has the force
of catastrophe.
There is little doubt that the verdict of history will substantially en-
dorse the Arab view. Whatever else may be said of the San Remo
decisions [of spring 1920, in which “the whole of the Arab Rectangle
lying between the Mediterranean and the Persian frontier was to be
placed under mandatory rule”] they did violate the general principles
proclaimed and the specific promises made by the Allies, and more
particularly by Great Britain. The purport of the pledges given in
secret is now known: what with that and the assurances made publicly,
the student has all the relevant material for a judgement. It was on the
strength of those promises that the Arabs had come into the War and
made their contribution and their sacrifices; and that fact alone sufficed
to turn the corresponding obligation into a debt of honour. What the
San Remo conference did was, in effect, to ignore the debt and come
to decisions which, on all the essential points, ran counter to the wishes
of the peoples concerned. 152
It would be wrong to downplay the differences between James and An-
tonius, separated as they are not only by ideology and race, but by tempera-
ment and education. Still, the same sadness, disappointment, and unrequited
hope linger unmistakably in their prose, and both men belonged to, and were
shaped by, the politics of decolonization. James belonged to the lower
middle class in Trinidad; he was an autodidact, athlete, and ever — as I was
able to see for myself when I visited him, then aged eighty-six, in Brixton
in June 1987 — the precocious schoolboy, with the revolutionary’s interest in
history, politics, and theory, and the intellectual's attentiveness to ideas,
contradictions, and the sheer sporty adventurousness of good literature,
music, and conversation. Antonius, as Albert Hourani has memorably de-
scribed him, 135 belonged to an older, more worldly class of Levantine Syri-
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248 RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
ans resident for a time in Egypt (where he attended Victoria College, a
school I myself attended); he was graduated from Cambridge University.
When he wrote The Arab Awakening Antonius was in his forties (he died in
1942, aged about fifty); James was a full decade younger. Whereas Antonius
had had a rich career as a confidant of high British officers, as adviser to
major Arab leaders and elites from Hussein and Faysal to Faris Nimr and
Haj Amin al-Husayni, as heir to decades of Arab nationalist thought and
activity, and was a worldly man addressing other worldly men in positions
of power, James, newly arrived in England, worked as a cricket correspon-
dent; he was a Black, a Marxist, a great public speaker and organizer, above
all he was a revolutionary steeped in African, Caribbean, and Black national-
ism. The Black Jacobins was first presented not as a book but as an acting
vehicle in London for Paul Robeson; during the performances of the play,
Robeson and James alternated the parts ofToussaint and Dessalines. 134
Despite the differences between the indigent and itinerant West Indian
Black Marxist historian and the more conservative, highly educated, and
brilliantly well-connected Arab, both addressed their work to a world they
considered their own, even if that very European world of power and
colonial domination excluded, to some degree subjugated, and deeply disap-
pointed them. They addressed that world from within it, and on cultural
grounds they disputed and challenged its authority by presenting alternative
versions of it, dramatically, argumentatively, and intimately. There is no
sense in their work of their standing outside the Western cultural tradition,
however much they articulate the adversarial experience of colonial and/or
non-Western peoples. Well after negritude, Black nationalism, and the nativ-
ism of the 1960s and 1970s, James stubbornly supported the Western heritage
at the same time that he belonged to the insurrectionary anti-imperialist
moment Which he shared with Fanon, Cabral, and Rodney. In an interview
he said:
How am I to return to non-European roots? If it means that Caribbean
writers today should be aware that there are emphases in their writing
that we owe to non-European, non-Shakespearean roots, and the past
in music that is not Beethoven, that I agree. But I don’t like them posed
there in the way they have been posed either-or. I don’t think so. I think
both of them. And fundamentally we are a people whose literacy and
aesthetic past is rooted in Western European civilisation. 135 .
And if in his masterful account of the rise of Arab nationalism Antonius
stresses the capital importance of the rediscovery of the Arabic language and
the classical Islamic heritage (most often through the work of Christian
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The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition 249
thinkers like himself, an emphasis that subsequent historians have criticized
as exaggerated), he also insists that the Arabic tradition is in no essential way
in conflict with the Western one. There is instead parturition and filiation
between them, as, for example, he explains in the following important
passage:
The educational activities of the American missionaries in that early
period [the iSyos and 1860s] had, among many virtues, one outstanding
merit; they gave the pride of place to Arabic, and, once they had
committed themselves to teaching in it, put their shoulders with vigour
to the task of providing an adequate literature. In that, they were the
pioneers; and because of that, the intellectual effervescence which
marked the first stirrings of the Arab revival owes most to their
labours. 136
No such harmonious coincidence between the West and its overseas
colonies is observed in the work of Guha and Alatas. The colonial wars and
the protracted political and military conflicts thereafter have intervened.
And if direct political control has disappeared, economic, political, and
sometimes military domination, accompanied by cultural hegemony — the
force of ruling and, as Gramsci calls them, directive (dirigente) ideas —
emanating from the West and exerting power over the peripheral world, has
sustained it. One of the sharpest attacks in Alatas’s The Myth of the Lazy Native
is against those Malaysians who continue to reproduce in their own thinking
the colonial ideology that created and sustained the “lazy native” idea. In
passages that recall Fanon’s strictures against the nationalist bourgeoisie,
Alatas shows how residues of colonial capitalism remain in the thought of
the newly autonomous Malays, confining them — those, that is, who have not
become self-conscious in methodology and aware of the class affiliations that
affect thought — to the categories of “colonial capitalist thought” Thus, he
continues,
The false consciousness distorts the reality. The Malay ruling party
inherited the rule from the British without a struggle for independence
such as that which took place in Indonesia, India and the Philippines.
As such there was also no ideological struggle. There was no intellec-
tual break with British ideological thinking at the deeper level of
thought. The leadership of this party were recruited from the top
hierarchy of the civil service trained by the British, and middle class
Malay school teachers and civil servants. The few professionals as-
sociated with it did not set the pattern. 137
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2JO
Guha is no less concerned with the problematic of continuity and discon-
tinuity, but for him the issue has autobiographical resonances, given his own
profoundly self-conscious methodological preoccupations. How is one to
study the Indian past as radically affected by British power not in the
abstract but concretely when one is a modern Indian whose origin, upbring-
ing, and family reality historically depended on that power? How can one
see that relationship after Indian independence when one had been of, rather
than outside, it? Guha’s predicament is resolved in an intellectual strategy
that dramatizes the strict otherness of British rule, which gave rise not only
to the Act of Permanent Settlement but also to his own class:
In his early youth the author, like many others of his generation in
Bengal, grew up in the shadow of the Permanent Settlement: his liveli-
hood, like that of his family, was derived from remote estates they had
never visited; his education was orientated by the needs of a colonial
bureaucracy recruiting its cadre from among the scions of Lord Corn-
wallis’s beneficiaries; his world of culture was strictly circumscribed by
the values of a middle class living off the fat of the land and divorced
from the indigenous culture of its peasant masses. He had therefore
learnt to regard the Permanent Settlement as a charter of social and
economic stagnation. Subsequently, as a post-graduate student of Cal-
cutta University he read about the anti-feudal ideas of Philip Francis
and was at once faced with a question which the text-books and the
academics could not answer for him. How was it that the quasi-feudal
land settlement of 1793 had originated from the ideas of a man who was
a great admirer of the French Revolution? One could not know from
the history books that such a contradiction existed and had to be
explained. The manuals were satisfied that the good work England had
done in India represented a series of successful experiments which had
little to do with the ideas and prejudices inherited by the rulers from
their European background. This view of British policy as a “rootless
blossom” is not confirmed by the history of the land law that had the
longest life under the raj. The author hopes that he has been able to
locate the origins of the Permanent Settlement in that confluence of
ideas where the two mainstreams of English and French thought
merged in the second half of the eighteenth century. 138
An act of separation repeats the basic gesture of decolonization. By under-
standing that the ideology that produced Permanent Setdement in India
derived historically from French and British sources, and by seeing that his
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The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition 251
own class heritage stemmed not from the land but from the structure of
colonial power, Guha can thereafter detach himself intellectually. As it is for
Alatas, history for Guha is critique, not the dutiful replication of colonialist
objects, ideologies, and arguments. In subsequent work, both men concen-
trate on trying to rescue the suppressed native voice from colonial history,
and to derive new historiographical insights not only into the past but into
the very weaknesses in native society that made it for so long vulnerable to
schemes like the Act of Permanent Settlement.
In the introductory essay to Subaltern Studies, a series of collective volumes
by like-minded colleagues launched under his aegis in 1982, Guha remarks
that the “unhistorical historiography” of colonial India left out “the politics
of the people” in favor of the nationalist elites created by the British. Hence
“the historic failure of the nation to come into its own,” which makes “the
study of this failure fwhat] constitutes the central problematic of the histori-
ography of colonial India.” 13,
Metropolitan culture, in short, can now be seen to have suppressed the
authentic elements in colonized society. It is not simply that Alatas and
Guha are academic specialists, but that, after several decades of indepen-
dence, the relationship between cultures is perceived as radically antitheti-
cal. One sign of this new post-war perception is the gradual disappearance
of narrative. The subjects of The Arab Awakening and The Black Jacobins
are mass movements led by extraordinary leaders. There are gripping,
even noble stories here, of the rise of popular resistance movements — the
slave revolt in Santo Domingo, the Arab revolt — grand narratives, injean-
Franyois Lyotard’s terms, of enlightenment and emancipation. No such
stories animate the pages of Alatas and Guha.
One strikingly similar aspect of both the earlier books is that they are
meant to enlarge the awareness of Western readers, for whom the narrated
events were previously recounted by metropolitan witnesses. James’s task is
to produce a narrative of the French Revolution that incorporates events in
France and overseas, and so for him Toussaint and Napoleon are the two
great figures produced by the Revolution. The Arab Awakening is, in all sorts
of fascinating ways, designed to restrict and counteract the very famous
account of the Arab Revolt written and much vaunted by T. E. Lawrence
in The Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Here at last, Antonius seems to be saying, the
Arabs, their leaders and warriors and thinkers, can tell their own story. It is
an aspect of their generous historical vision that both James and Antonius
offer an alternative narrative that can be read as part of a story already
well-known to European audiences, but not until now well-known from a
native point of view. And of course both men write from the standpoint of
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
* 5 *
an ongoing mass political struggle — “Negro revolution” in James’s case,
Arab nationalism in Antonius’s. The enemy is still the same, Europe and the
West.
One problem with Antonius’s book is that because he is principally
focussed on the political events in which he himself was so involved, he
either scants or does not adequately assess the vast cultural revival in the
Arab and Islamic world that preceded his own period. Later historians — A.
L Tibawi, Albert Hourani, Hisham Sharabi, Bassam Tibi, Mohammad Abed
al-Jabry — offer a more precise and wider account of this revival, and of its
awareness (already present in Jabarti) of Western imperial impingement on
Islam. 140 Writers like the Egyptian Tahtawi or the Tunisian Khayr al-Din,
or the crucial late-nineteenth-century religious pamphleteers and reformers
who include Jamal al-Din al-Afghani and Muhammad Abduh, emphasize
the importance of developing a revitalized independent culture to resist the
West, to match it technologically, to be able to develop a coherently indige-
nous Arab-Islamic identity. Such an important study as A. A. Duri’s The
Historical Formation of the Arab Nation (1984) 141 carries that story into the
classical Arab nationalist narrative of an integral nation, pursuing its own
development in spite of such obstacles as imperialism, internal stagnation,
economic underdevelopment, political despotism.
In all these works, including Antonius’s, the narrative progresses from
dependence and inferiority to nationalist revival, independent state forma-
tion, and cultural autonomy in anxious partnership with the West. This is
very far from a triumphalist story. Lodged at its heart, so to speak, is a
complex of hope, betrayal, and bitter disappointment; the discourse of Arab
nationalism today carries this complex along with it. The result is an unful-
filled and incomplete culture, expressing itself in a fragmented language of
torment, angry insistence, often uncritical condemnation of outside (usually
Western) enemies. Post-colonial Arab states thus have two choices: many,
like Syria and Iraq, retain the pan-Arab inflection, using it to justify a
one-party national security state that has swallowed up civil society almost
completely; others, like Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Morocco, while retaining as-
pects of the first alternative, have devolved into a regional or local national-
ism whose political culture has not, I believe, developed beyond dependence
on the metropolitan West. Both alternatives, implicit in The Arab Awakening,
are at odds with Antonius’s own preference for dignified and integral
autonomy.
In James’s case, The Black Jacobins bridges an important cultural and
political gap between Caribbean, specifically Black, history on the one hand,
and European history on the other. Yet it too is fed by more currents and
flows in a wider stream than even its rich narrative may suggest. At about
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The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition 253
the same time James composed A History of Negro Revolt (1938), whose purpose
was “to give historical depth to the process of resistance itself,” in Walter
Rodney’s brilliant description of the work. 142 Rodney notes that James
acknowledged the long-standing (if usually unsuccessful) resistance to
colonialism in Africa and the Caribbean that went unrecognized by colonial
historians. Again like that of Antonius, his work was an adjunct to his
engagement with and commitment to African and West Indian political
struggle, a commitment that took him to the United States, to Africa (where
his life-long friendship with George Padmore and a mature association with
Nkrumah were crucial to the formation of politics in Ghana, as is clear from
his highly critical study Nkrumah and the Ghana Revolution), then to the West
Indies again, and finally to England.
Although James was an anti-Stalinist dialectician, like Antonius’s, his
critical attitude to the West as imperial center never kept him from under-
standing its cultural achievements, or from criticizing failings of the Black
partisans (like Nkrumah) he supported. He lived longer than Antonius of
course, but, as his opinions expanded and changed, as he added more areas
of experience to his liberationist concerns, as he entered and exited from
polemics and controversies, he kept a steady focus on (the phrase keeps
turning up) the story. He saw the central pattern of politics and history in
linear terms — “from Du Bois to Fanon," “from Toussaint to Castro” — and
his basic metaphor is that of a voyage taken by ideas and people; those who
were slaves and subservient classes could first become the immigrants and
then the principal intellectuals of a diverse new society.
In the work of Guha and Alatas, that narrative sense of the human
adventure is replaced with irony. Both men bring to light the unattractive
strategies that went along with the pretensions of imperialism, its now
completely discredited ideology of ennoblement and pedagogic improve-
ment. Consider first Guha’s minute reconstruction of the ways in which
British East India Company officials married empiricism and anti-feudalism
to French Physiocratic philosophy (whose basis was the ideology of land
revenue) in order to achieve a permanence of British dominion, to use
the phrase employed by Guha’s protagonist Philip Francis.' 4 ’ Guha’s mas-
terful account of Francis — a “young Alcibiades” who was a friend of
Burke, contemporary of Warren Hastings, anti-monarchist, abolitionist,
consummate political animal — and his idea of permanent settlement is
told as a montage, with various cuts and splices, not as a heroic story.
Guha shows how Francis’s ideas about land and their gradual acceptance
well after his years of service occur along with the refurbishing of the
image of Hastings, and help to enhance, enrich, and buttress the idea of
Empire, which, to quote Guha,
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
AH
was already fast outstripping in importance the individual record of its
architects and as an abstraction assuming the independence of a firm’s
goodwill with respect to the personality of its founder .' 44
Guha’s theme is therefore the way abstraction requires and appropriates
not only people but geography. The central notion is that as imperialists the
British felt their task in India was to solve “the problem of sovereignty in
Bengal ” 145 in favor, naturally enough, of the British crown. And Francis’s
real achievement in decreeing the scheme whereby all the land rents in
Bengal were to be permanently settled according to mathematical formulae
was that he succeeded in “forming or restoring the constitution of an
Empire .” 144
Guha’s work is intended to demonstrate one way to dismantle imperial
historiography — undergirded by the British charting of Indian territory —
not in India so much as in Europe, the original site of its greatest security,
longevity, and authority. The irony is that a native does the job, mastering
not only sources and methods, but the overpowering abstractions whose
traces in the minds of imperialists themselves were scarcely discernible
when they originated.
The same dramatic achievement occurs in Alatas’s book. Whereas Guha’s
characters are literally ideologists, concerned with asserting authority over
India in philosophically coherent ways, no such program is claimed for the
Portuguese, Spanish, and British colonialists analyzed by Alatas. They are
in the Southeast Pacific to get treasure (rubber and metals) and cheap labor,
in the pursuit of economic profit Requiring service from the natives, they
devise various schemes for lucrative colonial economies, destroying local
middle-level traders in the process, subjugating and virtually enslaving the
natives, setting off internecine ethnic wars among Chinese, Javanese, and
Malaysian communities the better to rule and to keep the natives divided
as well as weak. Out of this welter emerges the mythical figure of the lazy
native, from whose existence as an essential and unchanging constant in
Eastern society, a number of basic truths supposedly flow. Alatas patiently
documents how these descriptions — all of them based on the “false con-
sciousness” of colonialists unwilling to accept that the natives’ refusal to
work was one of the earliest forms of resistance to the European incursion —
steadily acquire consistency, authority, and the irrefutable immediacy of
objective reality. Observers such as Raffles then construct a rationale for
further subjugating and punishing the natives, since the decline in native
character had already occurred, as colonialist administrators saw it, and was
irreversible.
Alatas supplies us with an alternative argument about the meaning of the
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The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition zjj
lazy native, or rather, he supplies us with an argument for why the Euro-
peans succeeded in holding on to the myth for as long as they did. Indeed,
he also demonstrates how the myth lives on, how, in Eric Williams’s words
quoted earlier, “an outworn interest, whose bankruptcy smells to heaven in
historical perspective, can exercise an obstructionist and disruptive effect
which can only be explained by the powerful services it had previously
rendered and the entrenchment previously gained.” 147 The myth of the lazy
native is synonymous with domination, and domination is at bottom power.
Many scholars have become so accustomed to regard power only as a
discursive effect that Alatas’s description of how the colonialists systemati-
cally destroyed the commercial coastal states on Sumatra and along the
Malay coast, how territorial conquest led to the elimination of native classes
like fishermen and weapons craftsmen, and how, above all, foreign overlords
did things that no indigenous class ever would, is likely to shock us with its
plainness:
Power falling into Dutch hands was different from power falling into
the hands of an indigenous successor. An indigenous power was gener-
ally more liberal in trade. It did not destroy its own trading class
throughout the whole area, and continued to use the products of its
own industry. It built its own boats, and last but not least was incapable
of imposing a monopoly throughout the major part of Indonesia. It
promoted the abilities of its own people even though a tyrant was on
the throne. 148
Control of the sort described here by Alatas and by Guha in his book is
almost total and in devastating, continuous conflict with the colonized
society. To tell the narrative of how a continuity is established between
Europe and its peripheral colonies is therefore impossible, whether from the
European or the colonial side; what seems most appropriate for the decolo-
nizing scholar is instead a hermeneutics of suspicion. Nevertheless, though
the grand, nourishingly optimistic narratives of emancipatory nationalism
no longer serve to confirm a community of culture as they did for James and
Antonius in the 1930s, a new community of method — more difficult and
astringent in its demands — arises instead. Guha’s work has stimulated an
important cooperative enterprise, Subaltern Studies, which in turn has led
Guha and his colleagues into remarkable further researches on the problems
of power, historiography, and people’s history. Alatas’s work has had two
aims: to establish a foundation for a post-colonial methodology of South
Asian history and society, and to further the demystifying and deconstruc-
tive work suggested in The Myth of the Lazy 'Native.
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2 5 d
I do not mean to suggest either that the enthusiasm and passionately
narrated works of the two pre-war intellectuals have been rejected and
found wanting by later generations, or that the more technical and demand-
ing work by Alatas and Guha shows a more narrowly professional and, alas,
less culturally generous view of the metropolitan Western audience. Rather,
it seems to me that James and Antonius speak for movements already
launched toward self-determination, albeit of a partial and ultimately very
unsatisfactory sort, whereas Guha and Alatas, in their discussion of issues
raised by the post-colonial predicament, take earlier successes (such as
national independence) for granted while also underlining the imperfections
of the decolonizations, the freedoms and self-identity gained hitherto. Also,
Guha and Alatas address themselves equally to Western scholars and to
compatriots, native scholars still held in thrall by colonialist conceptions of
their own past
The question of constituency raises the more general question of audi-
ences; as the many general readers of The Black Jacobins or The Arab Awaken-
ing can quickly testify, the audience has shrunk for the later, more
disciplinary and rarefied books. James and Antonius assume that what they
have to say is of major political and aesthetic import. James draws Toussaint
as an appealingly admirable man, non-vindictive, immensely intelligent,
subtle, and responsive to the sufferings of his fellow Haitians. “Great men
make history,” says James, “but only such history as it is possible for them
to make.” 149 Toussaint rarely took his people into his confidence and he
misjudged his antagonists. James makes no such mistake, sustains no illu-
sions. In The Black Jacobins he clinically reconstructs the imperialist context
of self-interest and moral scruple out of which British Abolitionism and the
well-intentioned Wilberforce arose; but as France and the Haitian Blacks
were locked in bloody war, the British government manipulated philan-
thropic feeling to advance British Caribbean power at the expense of France
and her antagonists. James is excoriating about imperialism’s never giving
anything away. Yet he retains his faith in the persuasive powers of a narra-
tive whose main ingredients are the struggle for freedom common to France
and to Haiti, and the wish to know and act; this underpins his writing as a
Black historian for a contesting Black as well as a metropolitan white
audience.
Is this voyage in retributive, the repressed colonial object coming to haunt
and dog the footsteps of the modem European, for whom the misshapen
legacy of Toussaint in the Duvaliers and Trujillos of this world confirms the
idea of the savage non-European? James does not fall into the trap of being
mainly reactive, preferring instead, in his 1962 preface, to show how T ous-
saint’s revolutionary ideas have re-emerged in successful liberation struggles
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The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition 257
and, with equal force, in the birth of newly self-conscious and confident
national cultures, aware of the colonial past yet pushing toward “the ulti-
mate stage of a Caribbean quest for national identity.” 150 Not for nothing has
James been considered by so many writers— George Lamming, V. S. Nai-
paul, Eric Williams, Wilson Harris — the grand patriarch of contemporary
West Indian culture.
Similarly for Antonius, the Allies’ betrayal of the Arabs does not diminish
the grand retrospective sweep of his narrative, in which the Arabs are moved
by ideas of freedom shared with Europeans, just as Tbe Black Jacobins
grounded the study of modem “Negro Revolt” (James’s phrase), so also did
The Arab Aviakening inaugurate the academic investigation of Arab national-
ism, which has gradually become a discipline not only in the Arab world but
also in the West. Here too the affiliation with an ongoing politics is espe-
cially moving. Taking his case and expressing the unfulfilled self-determina-
tion of the Arabs to the same jury of Western politicians and thinkers who
had thwarted a movement of history, Antonius is very much like James
speaking both to his own people and to a resistant white audience for whom
the emancipation of non-whites had become a marginal issue. The appeal
made is not to fairness or compassion, but to the often startling and super-
vening realities of history itself. How remarkable then to read Antonius’s
comments contained in a lecture at Princeton in 1935, while he was working
on The Arab Awakening:
It often happens in the history of nations that a conflict of opposing
forces which seems destined inevitably to end in the triumph of the
stronger party is given an unspecified twist by the emergence of new
forces which owe their emergence to that very triumph. 151
Uncannily, it seems to me, Antonius was seeing from the depths of present
disappointment through to the explosion of that very mass insurrection he
seems in his book implicitly to be arguing for. (The Palestinian intifada, one
of the great anti-colonial uprisings of our times, continues the struggle over
historical Palestine, one of the principal themes of The Arab Awakening )
And that observation returns us brusquely to the general subject of schol-
arship and politics. Each of the scholars I have discussed is firmly rooted in
a local situation, with its histories, traditions, and affiliations inflecting both
the choice of topic and its treatment Antonius’s book, for example, solicits
our attention today as a history of early-twentieth-century Arab nationalism
and as the poignant document of a class of notables superseded after the 1930s
and ’40s by more radical, popular, and nativist writers in Arabic; no longer
could, or need, Western policymakers be addressed at all, much less ad-
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
dressed from within a common universe of discourse. Guha emerges in the
1960s as an exile, profoundly at odds with Indian politics, controlled as they
were by those whom Tariq Ali has called “the Nehrus and the Gandhis.” 152
Politics — and the frankly political impulse behind their work — naturally
affects the scholarship and research that all four men present An explicit
political or human urgency in the tone and the import of their books
contrasts noticeably with what in the modem West has come to represent
the norm for scholarship. (How that norm, with its supposed detachment, its
protestations of objectivity and impartiality, its code of politesse and ritual
calmness, came about is a problem for the sociology of taste and knowledge.)
Each of these four Third World intellectuals writes out of and within a
political situation whose pressures are constant, not momentary annoyances
or minor empirical concerns to be brushed aside in the interests of a higher
goal. The unresolved political situation is very near the surface, and it infects
the rhetoric, or skews the accents of that scholarship, because the authors
write from a position, it is true, of knowledge and authoritative learning, but
also from the position of people whose message of resistance and contesta-
tion is the historical result of subjugation. As Adorno says of the apparent
mutilation of the language used in such circumstances, “The language of the
subjected, on the other hand, domination alone has stamped, so robbing
them further of the justice promised by the unmutilated, autonomous word
to all those free enough to pronounce it without rancor.” 153
I do not mean to suggest that oppositional scholarship must be shrill and
unpleasantly insistent, or that Antonius and James (or Guha and Alatas for
that matter) punctuate their discourse with insults and accusations. I am only
saying that scholarship and politics are more openly connected in these
books because these writers think of themselves as emissaries to Western
culture representing a political freedom and accomplishment as yet unful-
filled, blocked, postponed. To misinterpret the historical force of their
statements, discourses, and interventions, to impugn them (as Conor Cruise
O’Brien once did) 154 as wailing for sympathy, to dismiss them as emotional
and subjective cris de coeur of strenuous activists and partisan politicians is
to attenuate their force, to misrepresent their value, to dismiss their enor-
mous contribution to knowledge. No wonder F anon said that “for the native,
objectivity is always directed against him.” 155
The temptation for metropolitan audiences has usually been to rule that
these books, and others like them, are merely evidence of native literature
written by “native informants,” rather than coeval contributions to knowl-
edge. The authority in the West even of works like Antonius’s andjames’s
has been marginalized because to W'estem professional scholars they seem
to be written from outside looking in. Perhaps that is one reason why Guha
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The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition 259
and Alatas, a generation later, choose to focus on rhetoric, ideas, and lan-
guage rather than upon history tout court, preferring to analyze the verbal
symptoms of power rather than its brute exercise, its processes and tactics
rather than its sources, its intellectual methods and enunciative techniques
rather than its morality — to deconstruct rather than to destroy.
To rejoin experience and culture is of course to read texts from the
metropolitan center and from the peripheries contrapuntally, according
neither the privilege of “objectivity" to “our side” nor the encumbrance of
“subjectivity" to “theirs .” 154 The question is a matter of knowing how to read,
as the deconstructors say, and not detaching this from the issue of knowing
what to read. Texts are not finished objects. They are, as Williams once said,
notations and cultural practices. And texts create not only their own prece-
dents, as Borges said of Kafka, but their successors. The great imperial
experience of the past two hundred years is global and universal; it has
implicated every corner of the globe, the colonizer and the colonized to-
gether. Because the West acquired world dominance, and because it seems
to have completed its trajectory by bringing about “the end of history” as
Francis Fukuyama has called it, Westerners have assumed the integrity and
the inviolability of their cultural masterpieces, their scholarship, their
worlds of discourse; the rest of the world stands petitioning for attention at
our windowsill. Yet I believe it is a radical falsification of culture to strip it
of its affiliations with its setting, or to pry it away from the terrain it
contested or — more to the point of an oppositional strand within Western
culture — to deny its real influence. Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park is about
England and about Antigua, and the connection is made explicitly by Aus-
ten; it is therefore about order at home and slavery abroad, and can — indeed
ought — to be read that way, with Eric Williams and C.L.R. James alongside
the book. Similarly Camus and Gide write about precisely the same Algeria
written about by Fanon and Kateb Yacine.
If these ideas of counterpoint, intertwining, and integration have anything
more to them than a blandly uplifting suggestion for catholicity of vision, it
is that they reaffirm the historical experience of imperialism as a matter first
of interdependent histories, overlapping domains, second of something re-
quiring intellectual and political choices. If, for example, French and Al-
gerian or Vietnamese history, Caribbean or African or Indian and British
history are studied separately rather than together, then the experiences of
domination and being dominated remain artificially, and falsely, separated.
And to consider imperial domination and resistance to it as a dual process
evolving toward decolonization, then independence, is largely to align one-
self with the process, and to interpret both sides of the contest not only
hermeneutically but also politically.
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l6o RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
Such books as The Black Jacobins, The Arab Awakening A Rule of Properly, and
The Myth of the Lazy Native belong squarely in the contest itself. They make
the interpretative choice clearer, harder to avoid.
Consider the contemporary history of the Arab world as an instance of a
history of continuing stress. Antonius’s achievement was to establish that the
interaction between Arab nationalism and the West (or its regional surro-
gates) was something to be studied and something to be either supported or
fought. Subsequent to The Arab Awakening especially in the United States,
France, and Britain, the emergence of an academic field called “Middle
Eastern studies” in anthropology, history, sociology, political science, eco-
nomics, and literature is related to the political tensions in the area and to
the position of the two former colonial powers and the present superpower.
Ever since the Second World War it has been impossible to evade either the
Arab-Israeli conflict or the study of individual societies in academic “Middle
Eastern studies.” Thus to write about the Palestinian issue at all required one
to decide whether the Palestinians were a people (or national community),
which in turn implied supporting or opposing their right to self-determina-
tion. For both sides, scholarship leads back to Antonius — accepting his views
on the Western betrayal or, conversely, the West’s right to have promised
Palestine to the Zionist movement given the greater cultural importance of
Zionism. 1 ”
And this choice opens up others. On the one hand, can one with any other
than a political or ideological justification speak of the modern “Arab mind,”
with its alleged propensity to violence, its culture of shame, the historical
overdetermination of Islam, its political semantics, its degeneration vis-a-vis
Judaism and Christianity? These notions produce such tendentious works as
Raphael Patai’s The Arab Mind, David Pryce-Jones’s The Closed Circle, Ber-
nard Lewis’s The Political Language of Islam , Patricia Crone and Michael
Cook’s Hagarism , 15 ’ 1 They wear the clothing of scholarship, but hone of these
works moves outside the arena of struggle as first defined in the West by
Antonius; none can be described as being free from hostility to the Arabs’
collective aspiration to break out of the historical determinism developed in
colonial perspectives.
On the other hand, the critical and anti-Orientalist discourse of an older
generation of scholars like Anwar Abdel-Malek and Maxime Rodinson
continues with a younger generation that comprises Timothy Mitchell,
Judith Tucker, Peter Gran, Rashid al-Khalidi, and their counterparts in
Europe. During the 1980s the formerly conservative Middle East Studies
Association underwent an important ideological transformation that these
people helped to bring about. Formerly aligned with and often staffed by
mainline academics, oil company executives, governmental consultants and
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The Voyage In and the Emergence of Opposition 261
employees, MESA openly took up issues of contemporary political signifi-
cance in its large annual meetings: the Iranian Revolution, the Gulf War, the
Palestinian intifada , the Lebanese Civil War, the Camp David Accords, the
relationship between Middle East scholarship and political ideology — issues
that had formerly been occluded or minimized in the studies of individuals
like Lewis, Patai, plus more recently Walter Laqueur, Emmanuel Sivan,
and Daniel Pipes. Academic work that advocated a policy line opposed to
native Arab or Islamic nationalism had dominated professional and even
journalistic discussion (as in such best-selling works of journalism-as-
instant-scholarship as Thomas Friedman’s From Beirut to Jerusalem and David
Shipler’s Arab and Jem), but that began to change.
At the core of the “old” line was an essentialization of Arabs as basically,
irrecusably, and congenitally “Other,” and it took on racist overtones in its
elaborations of an “Arab” anti-democratic, violent, and regressive attitude to
the world. Central to this attitude was another factor, Israel, also a contribu-
tor to the polarity that was set up between democratic Israel and a homoge-
nously non-democratic Arab world, in which the Palestinians, dispossessed
and exiled by Israel, came to represent “terrorism” and little beyond it. But
now it was the precisely differentiated histories of various Arab peoples,
societies, and formations that younger anti-Orientalist scholars put forward;
in respecting the history of and developments within the Arab world, they
restored to it a dynamic sense of the unfulfilled march toward independence,
of human rights (especially those of women and disadvantaged minorities),
and freedom from outside (often imperialist) interference and internal cor-
ruption or collaboration.
What happened in the Middle East Studies Association therefore was a
metropolitan story of cultural opposition to Western domination. It was
matched by similar important changes in African, Indian, Caribbean, and
Latin American studies. No longer were these fields commanded by ex-
colonial officers or a platoon of academics speaking the appropriate lan-
guage. Instead a new receptivity to both liberation movements and
post-colonial criticism, and newly conscious opposition groups (the civil
rights movements in America, the immigrant rights movement in the United
Kingdom) effectively took away the monopoly of discourse held by Euro-
centric intellectuals and politicians. Here Basil Davidson, Terence Ranger,
Johannes Fabian, Thomas Hodgkin, Gordon K. Lewis, Ali Mazrui, Stuart
Hall were essential, their scholarship a catalyst for other scholars. And for
all these people the inaugural work of the four scholars I have discussed
here — their voyage in — was fundamental to the cultural coalition now being
built between anti-imperialist resistance in the peripheries and oppositional
culture of Europe and the United States.
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( v )
Collaboration, Independence, and Liberation
A t a 1969-70 seminar on imperialism held at Oxford, Ronald Robinson’s
paper “Non-European Foundations of European Imperialism” was
among the most interesting contributions. Along with Thomas Hodgkin’s
“African and Third World Theories of Imperialism," Robinson’s “sugges-
tion” for theoretical and empirical study showed the influence of the many
post-colonial developments I have been mentioning:
Any new theory must recognize that imperialism was as much a func-
tion of its victims’ collaboration or non-collaboration — of their indige-
nous politics, as it was of European expansion. . . . Nor [without the
voluntary or enforced cooperation of their governing elites and] with-
out indigenous collaboration, when the time came for it, could Euro-
peans have conquered and ruled their non-European empires. From
the outset that rule was continuously resisted; just as continuously
native mediation was needed to avert resistance or hold it down. 159
Robinson goes on to explore how in Egypt before 1882 the pashas and the
Khedive collaborated in permitting European penetration, after which, with
the dramatic overshadowing of that sector by the Orabi nationalist rebellion,
the British occupied the country militarily. He might have added, although
he does not, that many of the classes and individuals collaborating with
imperialism began by trying to emulate modern European ways, to modern-
ize according to what was perceived of as European advancement. During
the first two decades of the nineteenth century, Muhammad Ali sent mis-
sions to Europe, three decades beforejapanese missions came to the United
States and Europe for the same purpose. Within the French colonial orbit,
gifted students were brought to France to be educated until as late as the
1920s and 1930s, although some of them, like Senghor and C^saire and many
Indochinese intellectuals, turned into vigorous opponents of empire.
The primary purpose of these early missions to the West was to learn the
ways of the advanced white man, translate his works, pick up his habits.
Recent studies of the subject by Masao Miyoshi (As We Saw Them) and
Ibrahim Abu-Lughod (The Arab Rediscovery of Europe ) 160 show how the impe-
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Collaboration, Independence, and Liberation 263
rial hierarchy was imparted to eager students from the East along with
information, useful texts, and profitable habits. 161
Out of this particular dynamic of dependency came the first long reactive
experience of nativist anti-imperialism, typified in the exchange published
in 1883 between Afghani and Ernest Renan in the Revue de deux mondes, in
which the native, using terms defined in advance by Renan, tries to “dis-
prove” the European’s racist and culturally arrogant assumptions about his
inferiority. Whereas Renan speaks of Islam’s status as lower than that of
Judaism and Christianity, Afghani asserts that Islam is “better,’ 1 and claims
that the West improved itself by borrowing from the Muslims. Afghani also
argues that Islamic development in science occurred earlier than its Western
counterpart, and, if there was anything regressive about the religion, it came
from something common to all religions, an irreconcilability with science. 162
Afghani’s tone is amiable, even though he clearly opposes Renan. In
contrast to later resisters of imperialism — for whom liberation is the key
theme — Afghani, like Indian lawyers in the 1880s, belongs to a stratum of
people who while fighting for their communities try to find' a place for
themselves within the cultural framework they share with the West. They
are the elites who in leading the various nationalist independence move-
ments have authority handed on to them by the colonial power: thus Mount-
batten to Nehru, or de Gaulle to the FLN. To this sort of antagonistic
collaboration belong such different configurations of cultural dependency as
Western advisers whose work helped native peoples or nations to “rise” (one
aspect has been well chronicled in Jonathan Spence’s book on Western
advisers, To Change China), and those Western champions of the oppressed —
Mrs. Jellyby is an early caricature, members of the Liverpool School a later
example — who represented their own versions of the natives’ interest. An-
other example is in the competition between T. E. Lawrence and Louis
Massignon immediately after World War One, described with great subtlety
in an essay by Albert Hourani. 143 Each man had a genuine empathy with the
Arabs who fought against the Ottomans during the war (indeed, Massignon
made empathy with Islam the very center of his theory of the monotheistic
community, the Abrahamic succession), yet out of imperial conviction each
acted his part in the partitioning of the Arab world between France and
Britain: Lawrence served Britain, Massignon France, for the Arabs.
An entire massive chapter in cultural history across five continents grows
out of this kind of collaboration between natives on the one hand and
conventional as well as eccentric and contradictory representatives of impe-
rialism on the other. In paying respect to it, acknowledging the shared and
combined experiences that produced many of us, we must at the same time
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
note how at its center it nevertheless preserved the nineteenth-century
imperial divide between native and Westerner. The many colonial schools
in the Far East, India, the Arab world, East and West Africa, for example,
taught generations of the native bourgeoisie important truths about history,
science, culture. And out of that learning process millions grasped the
fundamentals of modem life, yet remained subordinate dependents of a
foreign imperial authority.
The culmination of this dynamic of dependence is the nationalism that
finally produced independent states in the once colonial countries across the
globe. Two political factors whose importance had already been registered
in culture now marked off the end of the period of nationalist anti-imperial-
ism and inaugurated the era of liberationist anti-imperialist resistance. One
was a pronounced awareness of culture as imperialism, the reflexive moment
of consciousness that enabled the newly independent citizen to assert the
end of Europe’s cultural claim to guide and/or instruct the non-European.
The second was the dramatically prolonged Western imperial mission in
various regions that I have already mentioned, principally Algeria, Vietnam,
Palestine, Guinea, and Cuba. But liberation, as distinguished from national-
ist independence, became the strong new theme, a theme already implicit
in earlier works by people like Marcus Garvey, Jos£ Marti, and W.E.B. Du
Bois, for instance, but now requiring the propulsive infusion of theory and
sometimes armed, insurrectionary militancy.
The national identity struggling to free itself from imperialist domination
found itself lodged in, and apparently fulfilled by, the state. Armies, flags,
legislatures, schemes of national education, and dominant (if not single)
political parties resulted and usually in ways that gave the nationalist elites
the places once occupied by the British or the French. Basil Davidson’s
important distinction between mass mobilization (the huge Indian crowds
who demonstrated in the streets of Calcutta, for example) and mass participa-
tion highlights the distinction between the nationalist elite and the rural and
urban masses who were briefly an organic part of the nationalist prbject
What Yeats does in Ireland is to help create a sense of restored commu-
nity — an Ireland regaled by “a company that sang, to sweeten Ireland’s
wrong, Ballad and story, rann and song” 16 '' — but at its center stands a select
group of men and women.
When the new national state gets established, argues Partha Chatterjee,
it is ruled not by prophets and romantic rebels but, in India’s case, by Nehru,
“a state-builder, pragmatic and self-conscious.” 165 To him the peasants and
the urban poor are ruled by passions, not reason; they can be mobilized by
poets like Tagore and charismatic presences like Gandhi, but after indepen-
dence this large number of people ought to be absorbed into the state, to be
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Collaboration , Independence, and Liberation 265
made functional in its development. Yet Chatterjee makes the interesting
point that by transforming nationalism into a new regional or state ideology,
post-colonial countries subjected themselves to a global process of rationali-
zation based on external norms, a process governed in the post-war years of
modernization and development by the logic of a world system whose type
is global capitalism, commanded at the top by the handful of leading indus-
trial countries.
Chatterjee is correct to say that “no matter how skillfully employed,
modem statecraft and the application of modern technology cannot effec-
tively suppress the very real tensions which remain unresolved.” 166 The new
pathology of power, in Eqbal Ahmad’s phrase, gives rise to national security
states, to dictatorships, oligarchies, one-party systems. In V. S. Naipaul’s
novel A Bend in the River (1979) an unnamed African country is ruled by a Big
Man, neither named nor present, who manipulates European consultants,
Indian and Muslim minorities, and his own tribespeople in and out of rigid
nativist doctrine (this is like the cult of Qaddafi’s Green Book or Mobutu’s
invented tribal traditions); by the end of the book many of his subjects have
been mercilessly killed; the one or two who survive the onslaught and
realize what is happening — like Salim, the protagonist — decide that the
situation is hopeless and yet another emigration is required (From an East
African Muslim Indian family, Salim drifts into the interior ruled by the Big
Man, then leaves the place forlorn and completely dejected.) Naipaul’s
ideological point is that the triumph of nationalism in the Third World not
only “suppresses the very real tensions . . . unresolved" in the post-colonial
state, but also eliminates the last hope of resistance against it, as well as the
last civilizing traces of Western influence.
Naipaul, a remarkably gifted travel writer and novelist, successfully
dramatizes an ideological position in the West from which it is possible to
indict the post-colonial states for having succeeded unconditionally in gain-
ing independence. His attack on the post-colonial world for its religious
fanaticism (in Among the Believers), degenerate politics (in Guerrillas), and
fundamental inferiority (in his first two books on India) 167 is a part of a
disenchantment with the Third World that overtook many people during
the 1970s and 1980s, among them several prominent Western proponents of
Third World nationalism, like Conor Cruise O’Brien, Pascal Bruckner (The
Tears of the White Man), and Gerard Chaliand. In an interesting semi-
documentary history of the earlier French support for Third World resis-
tance, Aux Origines des tiers-mondismes: Colonises el anti-colonialistes en France
(ipip-ipjp), Claude Liauzu ventures the thesis that by 1975 an anti-imperialist
block no longer existed as it had earlier. 168 The disappearance of a domestic
opposition to imperialism is a plausible argument about mainstream France
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
and perhaps also the Atlantic West generally, but it is not helpful about
persisting sites of contention, whether in the new states or in less prominent
sectors of metropolitan culture. Questions of power and authority once
directed at the classical empires of Britain and France are now thrown at
despotic successor regimes, and against the idea that African or Asian coun-
tries should remain in thrall and dependency.
The evidence for this is dramatic. The struggle in behalf of human and
democratic rights continues in, to name only a few places, Kenya, Haiti,
Nigeria, Morocco, Pakistan, Egypt, Burma, Tunisia, and El Salvador. Also,
the increasing significance of the women’s movement has put more pressures
on oligarchical statism and military (or one-party) rule. Tn addition the
oppositional culture still maintains links between the Western and the
non-European world: one first sees evidence of the connection in, for in-
stance, Cesaire's affiliations with Marxism and surrealism, and later in the
connection between Subaltern Studies and Gramsci and Barthes. Many intel-
lectuals in the formerly colonized world have refused to settle for the
unhappy fate of Naipaul’s Indar, once a promising young provincial who is
sought out by foundations in the United States, but now a discarded and
hopeless person with no place to go.
From time to time that is all he knows, that it is time for him to go
home. There is some dream village in his head. In between he does the
lowest kind of job. He knows he is equipped for better things, but he
doesn’t want to do them. I believe he enjoys being told he can do better.
We’ve given up now. He doesn’t want to risk anything again. 169
Indar is one of the “new men,” a Third World intellectual who springs to
undeserved prominence when fickle enthusiasts in the First World are in the
mood to support insurgent nationalist movements, but loses out when they
become less enthusiastic.
Is that an accurate representation of what resistance politics and culture
were all about? Was the radical energy that propelled Algerians and Indians
into mass insurrection finally contained and extinguished by independence?
No, because nationalism was only one of the aspects of resistance, and not
the most interesting or enduring one.
Indeed, that we can see and judge nationalist history so severely is a
testament to the radically new perspective offered on the entire experience
of historical imperialism by a deeper opposition; it comes positively from the
decentering doctrines of Freud, Marx, and Nietzsche, and negatively from
the insufficiencies of nationalist ideology. It infuses Aim6 Cesaire’s Discourse
on Colonialism , in which the ideologies of colonial dependency and Black
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Collaboration, Independence , and Liberation 267
racial inferiority are shown to have been incorporated surreptitiously into
the modern jargon of psychiatry, which in rum permits C6saire to use its
underlying deconstructive theoretical force to undermine its own imperial
authority. Nationalist culture has been sometimes dramatically outpaced
by a fertile culture of resistance whose core is energetic: insurgency, a
“technique of trouble,” directed against the authority and the discourse of
imperialism.
Yet this does not happen all or even most of the time, alas. All nationalist
cultures depend heavily on the concept of national identity, and nationalist
politics is a politics of identity: Egypt for the Egyptians, Africa for the
Africans, India for the Indians, and so on. What Basil Davidson calls nation-
alism’s “ambiguous fertility” 170 creates not only the assertion of a once
incomplete and suppressed but finally restored identity through national
systems of education, but also the inculcation of new authority. This is
equally true in the United States, where the tonic force of African-American,
women’s and minority expression has here and there been turned into
doctrine, as if the wish to criticize the myth of white America also meant the
need to supplant that myth with dogmatic new ones.
In Algeria, for example, the French forbade Arabic as a formal language
of instruction or administration; after 1962 the FLN made it understandably
the only such language, and set in place a new system of Arab-Islamic
education. The FLN then proceeded politically to absorb the whole of
Algerian civil society: within three decades this alignment of state and party
authority with a restored identity caused not only the monopolization of
most political practices by one party and the almost complete erosion of
democratic life, but, on the right wing, the challenging appearance of an
Islamic opposition, favoring a militantly Muslim Algerian identity based on
Koranic (shariah) principles. By the 1990s the country was in a state of crisis,
whose result has been a deeply impoverishing face-off between government,
which abrogated the results of the election as well as most free political
activity, and the Islamic movement, which appeals to the past and orthodoxy
for its authority. Both sides claim the right to rule Algeria.
In his chapter on “the pitfalls of nationalist consciousness” in The Wretched
of the Earth , Fanon foresaw this turn of events. His notion was that unless
national consciousness at its moment of success was somehow changed into
a social consciousness, the future would hold not liberation but an extension
of imperialism. His theory of violence is not meant to answer the appeals of
a native chafing under the paternalistic surveillance of a European police-
man and, in a sense, preferring the services of a native officer in his place.
On the contrary, it first represents colonialism as a totalizing system nour-
ished in the same way — Fanon’s implicit analogy is devastating — that
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
human behavior is informed by unconscious desires. In a second, quasi-
Hegelian move, a Manichean opposite appears, the insurrectionary native,
tired of the logic that reduces him, the geography that segregates him, the
ontology that dehumanizes him, the epistemology that strips him down to
an unregenerate essence. “The violence of the colonial regime and counter-
violence of the native balance each other and respond to each other in an
extraordinary reciprocal homogeneity .” 171 The struggle must be lifted to a
new level of contest, a synthesis represented by a war of liberation, for which
an entirely new post-nationalist theoretical culture is required.
If I have so often cited Fanon, it is because more dramatically and
decisively than anyone, I believe, he expresses the immense cultural shift
from the terrain of nationalist independence to the theoretical domain of
liberation. This shift takes place mainly where imperialism lingers on in
Africa after most other colonial states have gained independence, e.g., Alge-
ria and Guinea-Bissau. In any case Fanon is unintelligible without grasping
that his work is a response to theoretical elaborations produced by the
culture of late Western capitalism, received by the Third World native
intellectual as a culture of oppression and colonial enslavement. The whole
of Fanon's oeuvre is his attempt to overcome the obduracy of those very same
theoretical elaborations by an act of political will, to turn them back against
their authors so as to be able, in the phrase he borrows from Cdsaire, to
invent new souls.
Fanon penetratingly links the settler’s conquest of history with imperial-
ism’s regime of truth, over which the great myths of Western culture
preside
The settler makes history; his life is an epoch, an Odyssey. He is the
absolute beginning. “This land was created by us”; he is the unceasing
cause: “If we leave all is lost, and the country will go back to the Middle
Ages.” Over against him torpid creatures, wasted by fevers, obsessed by
ancestral customs, form an almost inorganic background for the in-
novating dynamism of colonial mercantilism . 172
As Freud excavated the subterranean foundations of the edifice of West-
ern reason, as Marx and Nietzsche interpreted the reified data of bourgeois
society by translating them back into primitive but productive impulses
toward dominance and accumulation, so Fanon reads Western humanism by
transporting the large hectoring bolus of “the Greco-Latin pedestal” bodily
to the colonial wasteland, where “this artificial sentinel is turned into
dust .” 172 It cannot survive juxtaposition with its quotidian debasement by
European settlers. In the subversive gestures of Fanon’s writing is a highly
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Collaboration, Independence, and Liberation 269
conscious man deliberately as well as ironically repeating the tactics of the
culture he believes has oppressed him. The difference between Freud, Marx,
and Nietzsche on the one hand and Fanon’s “native intellectual” on the
other is that the belated colonial thinker fixes his predecessors geograph-
ically — they are of the West — the better to liberate their energies from the
oppressing cultural matrix that produced them. By seeing them antitheti-
cally as intrinsic to the colonial system and at the same time potentially at
war with it, Fanon performs an act of closure on the empire and announces
a new era. National consciousness, he says, “must now be enriched and
deepened by a very rapid transformation into a consciousness of social and
political needs, in other words, into [real] humanism.” 174
How odd the word “humanism” sounds in this context, where it is free
from the narcissistic individualism, divisiveness, and colonialist egoism of
the imperialism that justified the white man’s rule. Like C6saire’s in his
Retour, Fanon’s reconceived imperialism is in its positive dimension a collec-
tive act reanimating and redirecting an inert mass of silent natives into a new
inclusive conception of history.
This huge task, which consists of re-introducing mankind into the
world, the whole of mankind, will be carried out with the indispensable
help of the European peoples, who themselves must realize that in the
past they have often joined the ranks of our common masters where
colonial questions are concerned. To achieve this, the European peo-
ples must first decide to wake up and shake themselves, use their brains,
and stop playing the stupid faun of the Sleeping Beauty.' 75
How this can be enacted takes us from the apparent exhortations and
prescriptions to the extraordinarily interesting structure and method of The
Wretched of the Earth. Fanon’s achievement in this his last work (published in
1961, a few months after his death) is first to represent colonialism and
nationalism in their Manichean contest, then to enact the birth of an inde-
pendence movement, finally to transfigure that movement into what is in
effect a trans-personal and trans-national force. The visionary and innova-
tive quality of Fanon’s final work derives from the remarkable subtlety with
which he forcibly deforms imperialist culture and its nationalist antagonist in
the process of looking beyond both toward liberation. Like Cesaire before
him, Fanon impugns imperialism for what it has created by acts of powerful
rhetorical and structured summary. These make clear imperialism’s long
cultural history, and — more tellingly — allow Fanon to formulate new
strategies and goals for liberation.
The Wretched of the Earth is a hybrid work — part essay, part imaginative
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2 7 0
RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
story, pan philosophical analysis, pan psychological case history, part na-
tionalist allegory, pan visionary transcendence of history. It begins with a
territorial sketch of the colonial space, separated into the clean, well-lighted
European city and the dark, fetid, ill-lit casbah. From this Manichean and
physically grounded stalemate Fanon’s entire work follows, set in motion, so
to speak, by the native’s violence, a force intended to bridge the gap between
white and non-white. For Fanon violence, as I said earlier, is the synthesis
that overcomes the reification of white man as subject, Black man as object.
My conjecture is that while he was writing the work Fanon read Lukacs’s
History and Class Consciousness, which had just appeared in Paris in French
translation in i960. Lukacs shows that the effects of capitalism are fragmenta-
tion and reification: in such a dispensation, every human being becomes an
object, or commodity, the product of human work is alienated from its
maker, the image of whole or of community disappears entirely. Most
important to the insurgent and heretical Marxism put forward by Lukacs
(shortly after publication in 1923 the book was removed from circulation by
Lukacs himself) was the separation of subjective consciousness from the
world of objects. This, he says, could be overcome by an act of mental will,
by which one lonely mind could join another by imagining the common
bond between them, breaking the enforced rigidity that kept human beings
as slaves to tyrannical outside forces. Hence reconciliation and synthesis
between subject and object.
Fanon’s violence, by which the native overcomes the division between
whites and natives, corresponds very closely to Lukacs’s thesis about over-
coming fragmentation by an act of will; Lukacs calls this “no single, un-
repeatable tearing of the veil that masks the process but the unbroken
alternation of ossification, contradiction and movement.” 176 Thus the sub-
ject-object reification in its prison-like immobility is destroyed. Fanon
adopts much of this extremely audacious thesis, which is oppositional even
within oppositional Marxism, in passages like the following, where the
settler’s consciousness functions like that of a capitalist, turning human
workers into inhuman and non-conscious objects:
The settler makes history and is conscious of making it. And because
he constantly refers to the history of his mother country, he clearly
indicates that he himself is the extension of that mother country. Thus
the history which he writes is not the history of the country which he
plunders but the history of his own nation in regard to all that she skins
off, all that she violates and starves.
The immobility [later he speaks o ( apartheid as one of the forms of
“division into compartments”: “The native,” he adds, “is being hemmed
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Collaboration, Independence , and Liberation 271
in. , . . The first thing which a native learns is to stay in his place”] 177
to which the native is condemned can only be called in question if the
native decides to put an end to the history of colonization— the history
of pillage — and to bring into existence the history of the nation — the
history of decolonization. 17 ®
In Fanon’s world change can come about only when the native, like
Lukacs’s alienated worker, decides that colonization must end — in other
words, there must be an epistemological revolution. Only then can there be
movement At this point enters violence, “a cleansing force,” which pits
colonizer against colonized directly:
The violence of the colonial regime and the counter-violence of the
native balance each other and respond to each other in an extraordi-
nary reciprocal homogeneity. . . . The settler’s work is to make even
dreams of liberty impossible for the native. The native’s work is to
imagine all possible methods for destroying the settler. On the logical
plane, the Manicheanism of the settler produces a Manicheanism of the
natives, to the theory of the “absolute evil of the native” the theory of
the “absolute evil of the settler” replies. 179
Here Fanon is not only reshaping colonial experience in terms suggested
by Lukacs, but also characterizing the emergent cultural and political antag-
onist to imperialism. His imagery for this emergence is biological:
The appearance of the settler has meant in the terms of syncretism
the death of the aboriginal society, cultural lethargy, and the petrifica-
tion of individuals. For the native, life can only spring up again out of
the rotting corpse of the settler. . . . But it so happens that for the
colonized people this violence, because it constitutes their only work,
invests their character with positive and creative qualities. The practice
of violence binds them together as a whole, since each individual forms
a violent link in the great chain, a part of the great organism of
violence. 180
Certainly Fanon depends here on the earlier language of French colonial-
ism, in which publicists like Jules Harmand and Leroy-Beaulieu used the
biological imagery of birth, parturition, and genealogy to describe the paren-
tal relationship of France to its colonial children. Fanon reverses things,
using that language for the birth of a new nation, and the language of death
for the colonial settler-state. Even this antagonism, however, does not cover
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
Z 7 2
all the differences that spring up once revolt begins and “life [appears to be]
an unending contest .” 181 There are the major divisions between legal and
illegal nationalism, between the politics of nationalist reform and simple
decolonization on the one hand, and the illicit politics of liberation on the
other.
These divisions are just as important as the one between colonized and
colonizer (whose motif is taken up, altogether more simply, by Albert
Memmi .) 182 Indeed the true prophetic genius of The Wretched of the Earth is
located precisely here: Fanon senses the divide between the nationalist
bourgeoisie in Algeria and the FLN’s liberationist tendencies, and he also
establishes conflicting narrative and historical patterns. Once the insurrec-
tion gets under way, the nationalist elites try to establish parity with France:
demands for human rights, self-rule, labor unions, and so on. And since
French imperialism called itself “assimilationist,” the official nationalist par-
ties are trapped into becoming co-opted agents of the ruling authorities.
(Such, for example, was the sad fate of Farhat Abbas, who as he gained in
official French approval lost any hope of winning mass support.) Thus
official bourgeois nationalists simply drop into the narrative pattern of the
Europeans, hoping to become mimic men, in Naipaul’s phrase, mere native
correspondences of their imperial masters.
Fanon’s brilliant analysis of the liberationist tendency opens Chapter i,
“Spontaneity: Its Strength and Weakness,” the basis of which is a time lag
and rhythm difference (dkalage) “between the leaders of a nationalist party
and the mass of the people .” 183 As the nationalists copy their methods from
Western political parties, all sorts of tensions develop within the nationalist
camp — between country and city, between leader and rank-and-file, be-
tween bourgeoisie and peasants, between feudal and political leaders — all of
them exploited by the imperialists. The core problem is that, although
official nationalists want to break colonialism, “another quite different will
[becomes apparent]: that of coming to a friendly agreement with it ” 184
Thereafter an illegal group asks questions about this policy, and it is quickly
isolated, often imprisoned.
So we can observe the process whereby the rupture runs between the
illegal and legal tendencies within the party . . . and an underground
party, an offshoot of the legal party, will be the result . 185
Fanon’s method for showing the effect of this underground party is to
dramatize its existence as a counter-narrative, an underground narrative, set
in motion by fugitives, outcasts, hounded intellectuals who flee to the
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Collaboration, Independence, and Liberation 273
countryside and in their work and organization clarify and also undermine
the weaknesses of the official narrative of nationalism. Far from leading
the colonized people to supreme sovereignty at one fell swoop, that
certainty which you had that all portions of the nation would be carried
along with you at the same speed and led onward by the same light, that
strength which gave you hope: all now are seen in the light of experi-
ence to be symptoms of a very great weakness. 186
Precisely that power to convey “the light of experience” is located in the
illegal tendency animating the liberationist party. This party shows to all
that racialism and revenge “cannot sustain a war of liberation”; hence the
native makes “the discovery” that in “breaking down colonial oppression he
is automatically building up yet another system of exploitation,” this time
giving it “a black face or an Arab one,” so long as the mimic men lead.
“History teaches clearly,” remarks Fanon at this point, “that the battle
against colonialism does not run straight away along the lines of national-
ism.” 187 In the image of the “lines of nationalism,” Fanon understands that
conventional narrative is, as we noted in Conrad’s work, central to imperial-
ism’s appropriative and dominative attributes. Narrative itself is the repre-
sentation of power, and its teleology is associated with the global role of the
West. Fanon was the first major theorist of anti-imperialism to realize that
orthodox nationalism followed along the same track hewn out by imperial-
ism, which while it appeared to be conceding authority to the nationalist
bpurgeoisie was really extending its hegemony. To tell a simple national
story therefore is to repeat, extend, and also to engender new forms of
imperialism. Left: to itself, nationalism after independence will “crumble into
regionalisms inside the hollow shell of nationalism itself.” 188 The old con-
flicts between regions are now repeated, privileges are monopolized by one
people over another, and the hierarchies and divisions constituted by impe-
rialism are reinstated, only now they are presided over by Algerians,
Senegalese, Indians, and so forth.
Unless, Fanon says a little later, “a rapid step . . . [is] taken from national
consciousness to political and social consciousness.” 189 He means first of all
that needs based on identitarian (i.e., nationalist) consciousness must be
overridden. New and general collectivities — African, Arab, Islamic — should
have precedence over particularist ones, thus setting up lateral, non-narra-
tive connections among people whom imperialism separated into autono-
mous tribes, narratives, cultures. Second — here Fanon follows some of
Lukacs’s ideas — the center (capital city, official culture, appointed leader)
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274 RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
must be deconsecrated and demystified. A new system of mobile relation-
ships must replace the hierarchies inherited from imperialism. In passages of
an incandescent power, Fanon resorts to poetry and drama, to Rene Char
and Keita Fodeba. Liberation is consciousness of self, “not the closing of a
door to communication ” 190 but a never-ending process of “discovery and
encouragement” leading to true national self-liberation and to universalism.
One has the impression in reading the final pages of The Wretched of the
Earth that having committed himself to combat both imperialism and ortho-
dox nationalism by a counter-narrative of great deconstructive power,
Fanon could not make the complexity and anti-identitarian force of that
counter-narrative explicit. But in the obscurity and difficulty of Fanon’s
prose, there are enough poetic and visionary suggestions to make the case
for liberation as a process and not as a goal contained automatically by the
newly independent nations. Throughout The Wretched of the Earth (written
in French), Fanon wants somehow to bind the European as well as the
native together in a new non-adversarial community of awareness and anti-
imperialism.
In Fanon’s imprecations against and solicitations of European attention,
we find much the same cultural energy that we see in the fiction of Ngugi,
Achebe, and Salih. Its messages are we must strive to liberate all man-
kind from imperialism; we must all write our histories and cultures rescrip-
tively in a new way; we share the same history, even though for some of
us that history has enslaved. This, in short, is writing from the colonies co-
terminous with the real potential of post-colonial liberation. Algeria was
liberated, as were Kenya and the Sudan. The important connections with the
former imperial powers remain, as does a newly clarified sense of what can
and cannot be relied on or salvaged from that former relationship. Once
again it is culture and cultural effort that presage the course of things to
come — well in advance of the cultural politics of the post-colonial period
dominated by the United States, the surviving superpower.
Since much of the literature of resistance was written in the thick of battle,
there is an understandable tendency to concentrate on its combative, often
strident 'assertiveness. Or to see in it a blueprint for the horrors of the Pol
Pot regime. On the one hand, a recent spate of articles on Fanon has looked
at him strictly as a preacher calling the oppressed to violence, and violence
only. Little is said about French colonial violence; according to the strident
polemics of Sidney Hook, Fanon is nothing more than an irrational, finally
stupid enemy of “the West" On the other hand, it is hard to miss in Amllcar
Cabral’s remarkable speeches and tracts the extraordinary intensity of the
man’s mobilizing force, his animosity and violence, the way ressevtiment and
hate keep turning up — all the more evident against the particularly ugly
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Collaboration, Independence, and Liberation 275
backdrop of Portuguese colonialism. Yet one would seriously misread such
texts as “The Weapons of Theory” or “National Liberation and Culture” if
one missed Cabral's enabling utopianism and theoretical generosity, just as
it is a misreading ofFanon not to see in him something considerably beyond
a celebration of violent conflict. For both Cabral and Fanon, the emphasis
on “armed struggle” is at most tactical. For Cabral the liberation gained by
violence, organization, and militancy is required because imperialism has
sequestered the non-European away from experiences that have been per-
mitted only to the white man. But, says Cabral, “the time is past when, in
an attempt to perpetuate the domination of peoples, culture was regarded
as an attribute of privileged peoples or nations and when, out of ignorance
or bad faith, culture was confused with technical skill, if not with the colour
of one’s skin or the shape of one’s eyes.” 1 ” To end those barriers is to admit
the non-European to the whole range of human experience; at least all
humankind can have a destiny and, more important, a history.
Certainly, as I said earlier, cultural resistance to imperialism has often
taken the form of what we can call nativism used as a private refuge. One
finds this not only in Jabarti, but in the great early hero of Algerian resis-
tance, the Emir Abdel Kader, a nineteenth-century warrior who, while
fighting the French armies of occupation, also cultivated a cloistral spiritual
apprenticeship to the thirteenth-century Sufi master Ibn Arabi. 192 To fight
against the distortions inflicted on your identity in this way is to return to
a pre-imperial period to locate a “pure” native culture. This is quite a
different thing from revisionist interpretations, such as those of Guha or
Chomsky, whose purpose is to demystify the interests at work in establish-
ment scholars who specialize in “backward” cultures, and to appreciate the
complexity of the interpretative process. In a way, the nativist argues that
one can get past all interpretation to the pure phenomenon, a literal fact
beseeching assent and confirmation, rather than debate and investigation.
Something of this passionate intensity is found in blanket condemnations of
“the West” such as Jalal Ali Ahmad’s Occidentosis: A Plague from the West
(1961-62) 1 ” or in Wole Soyinka implying the existence of a pure native
African (as in his unfortunate attack on Islam and the Arabs as defacing the
African experience); 194 one can see that intensity put more interestingly and
productively to use in Anwar Abdel-Malek’s proposal about “civilizational
projects” and the theory of endogamous cultures. 195
I am not particularly interested in spending much time discussing the
altogether obvious unhappy cultural consequences of nationalism in Iraq,
Uganda, Zaire, Libya, the Philippines, Iran, and throughout Latin America.
Nationalism’s disabling capacities have been lingered over and caricatured
quite long enough by a large army of commentators, expert and amateur
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
alike, for whom the non-Western world after the whites left it seems to have
become little more than a nasty mix of tribal chieftains, despotic barbarians,
and mindless fundamentalists. A more interesting commentary on the nativ-
ist tendency — and the rather naive foundationalist ideology that makes it
possible — is provided in such accounts of creole or mestizo culture as in
Rodo’s Ariel and by those Latin American fabulists whose texts demonstrate
the manifest impurity, the fascinating mixture of real and surreal in all
experience. As one reads “magic realists” like Carpentier, who first describes
it, Borges, Garcia Marquez, and Fuentes, one vividly apprehends the dense
interwoven strands of a history that mocks linear narrative, easily recuper-
ated “essences,” and the dogmatic mimesis of “pure” representation.
At its best, the culture of opposition and resistance suggests a theoretical
alternative and a practical method for reconceiving human experience in
non-imperialist terms. I say the tentative “suggests” rather than the more
confident “provides” for reasons that will, I hope, become evident
Let me quickly recapitulate the main points of my argument first. The
ideological and cultural war against imperialism occurs in the form of
resistance in the colonies, and later, as resistance spills over into Europe and
the United States, in the form of opposition or dissent in the metropolis. The
first phase of this dynamic produces nationalist independence movements,
the second, later, and more acute phase produces liberation struggles. The
basic premise of this analysis is that although the imperial divide in fact
separates metropolis from peripheries, and although each cultural discourse
unfolds according to different agendas, rhetorics, and images, they are in fact
connected, if not always in perfect correspondence. The Raj required Babus,
just as later the Nehrus and the Gandhis took over the India set up by the
British. The connection is made on the cultural level since, I have been
saying, like all cultural practices the imperialist experience is an intertwined
and overlapping one. Not only did the colonizers emulate as well as compete
with one another, but so also did the colonized, who often went from the
same general type of “primary resistance” to similar nationalist parties
seeking sovereignty and independence.
But is that all imperialism and its enemies have brought forward, a
ceaseless round of impositions and counter-impositions, or is a new horizon
opened up?
There can be little doubt that were they alive today Fahon and Cabral,
for example, would be hugely disappointed at the results of their efforts. I
make that speculation considering their work as a theory not just of resis-
tance and decolonization, but of liberation. In all sorts of ways, the somewhat
inchoate historical forces, confusing antitheses, unsynchronized events that
their work tried to articulate were not fully controlled or rendered by it
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Collaboration, Independence, and Liberation ijj
Fanon turned out to be right about the rapacity and divisiveness of national
bourgeoisies, but he did not and could not furnish an institutional, or even
theoretical, antidote for its ravages.
But it is not as state builders or, as the awful expression has it, founding
fathers that the greatest resistance writers like Fanon and Cabral should be
read and interpreted. Although the struggle for national liberation is contin-
uous with national independence, it is not — and in my opinion never was —
culturally continuous with it. To read Fanon and Cabral, or C.L.R. James
and George Lamming, or Basil Davidson and Thomas Hodgkin merely as
so many John the Baptists of any number of ruling parties or foreign-office
experts is a travesty. Something else was going on, and it sharply disrupts,
then abruptly veers away from the unity forged between imperialism and
culture. Why is this difficult to perceive?
For one, the theory and theoretical structures suggested by writers on
liberation are rarely given the commanding authority — I mean the phrase
quite literally — or blithe universalism of their contemporary, mostly West-
ern counterparts. There are many reasons for this, not the least being the one
I mentioned in my previous chapter, that very much like the narrative
devices in Heart of Darkness, many cultural theories pretending to universal-
ism assume and incorporate the inequality of races, the subordination of
inferior cultures, the acquiescence of those who, in Marx’s words, cannot
represent themselves and therefore must be represented by others. “Hence,”
says the Moroccan scholar Abdullah Laroui, “the Third World intelli-
gentsia’s condemnations of cultural imperialism. Sometimes people are puz-
zled by the ill-treatment meted out to the old liberal paternalism, to Marx’s
Europocentrism, and to structuralist anti-racism (Levi-Strauss). This is be-
cause they are unwilling to see how these can form part of the same
hegemonic system .” 196 Or, as Chinua Achebe puts it, when remarking that
Western critics often fault African writing for lacking “universality”:
Does it ever occur to these universalists to try out their game of
changing names of characters and places in an American novel, say, a
Philip Roth or an Updike, and slotting in African names just to see how
it works? But of course it would not occur to them to doubt the
universality of their own literature. In the nature of things the work of
a Western writer is automatically informed by universality. It is only
others who must strain to achieve it. So-and-so’s work is universal: he
has truly arrived! As though universality were some distant bend in the
road which you may take if you travel out far enough in the direction
of Europe or America, if you put adequate distance between yourself
and your home . 197
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
As an instructive reminder of this unfortunate state of affairs, consider the
roughly contemporary work of Michel Foucault and Frantz Fanon, both of
whom stress the unavoidable problematic of immobilization and confine-
ment at the center of the Western system of knowledge and discipline.
Fanon’s work programmatically seeks to treat colonial and metropolitan
societies together, as discrepant but related entities, while Foucault’s work
moves further and further away from serious consideration of social wholes,
focussing instead upon the individual as dissolved in an ineluctably advanc-
ing “microphysics of power” 198 that it is hopeless to resist. Fanon represents
the interests of a double constituency, native and Western, moving from
confinement to liberation; ignoring the imperial context of his own theories,
Foucault seems actually to represent an irresistible colonizing movement
that paradoxically fortifies the prestige of both the lonely individual scholar
and the system that contains him. Both. Fanon and Foucault have Hegel,
Marx, Freud, Nietzsche, Canguihelm, and Sartre in their heritage, yet only
Fanon presses that formidable arsenal into anti-authoritarian service. Fou-
cault, perhaps because of his disenchantment with both the insurrections of
the I9<5 os and the Iranian Revolution, swerves away from politics entirely. 19 ?
Much of Western Marxism, in its aesthetic and cultural departments, is
similarly blinded to the matter of imperialism. Frankfurt School critical
theory, despite its seminal insights into the relationships between domi-
nation, modem society, and the opportunities for redemption through an as
critique, is stunningly silent on racist theory, anti-imperialist resistance, and
oppositional practice in the empire. And lest that silence be interpreted as
an oversight, we have today’s leading Frankfun theorist, Jurgen Habermas,
explaining in an interview (originally published in The New Left Review) that
the silence is deliberate abstention; no, he says, we have nothing to say to
“anti-imperialist and anti-capitalist struggles in the Third World,” even if,
he adds, “I am aware of the fact that this is a eurocentrically limited view.’’ 200
All the major French theoreticians except Deleuze, Todorov, and Derrida
have been similarly unheeding, which has not prevented their ateliers from
churning out theories of Marxism, language, psychoanalysis, and history
with an implied applicability to the whole world. Much the same thing can
be said of most Anglo-Saxon cultural theory, with the important exception
of feminism, and a small handful of work by young critics influence^ by
Raymond Williams and Stuart Hall.
So if European theory and Western Marxism as cultural co-efficients of
liberation haven’t in the main proved themselves to be reliable allies in the
resistance to imperialism — on the contrary, one may suspect that they are
part of the same invidious “universalism” that connected culture with impe-
rialism for centuries — how has the liberationist anti-imperialism tried to
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Collaboration , Independence, and Liberation 279
break this shackling unity? First, by a new integrative or contrapuntal
orientation in history that sees Western and non- Western experiences as
belonging together because they are connected by imperialism. Second, by
an imaginative, even utopian vision which reconceives emancipatory (as
opposed to confining) theory and performance. Third, by an investment
neither in new authorities, doctrines, and encoded orthodoxies, nor in estab-
lished institutions and causes, but in a particular sort of nomadic, migratory,
and anti-narrative energy.
Let me illustrate my points by looking at a wonderful passage in C.L.R.
James’s The Black Jacobins. Twenty -odd years after his book appeared in 1938,
James appended a further chapter, “From Toussaint L’Ouverture to Fidel
Castro.” Although James is a highly original figure, as I said, it takes nothing
away from his contribution to associate his work with that of various metro-
politan historians and journalists — Basil Davidson, Thomas Hodgkin, Mal-
colm Caldwell among others in Britain, Maxime Rodinson, Jacques
Chesnaux, Charles-Robert Argeron among others in France — who labored
at the intersection of imperialism with culture, and who went the range from
journalism to fiction to scholarship. That is, there was a conscious attempt
not only to write history saturated in, taking maximum account of, the
struggle between imperial Europe and the peripheries, but to write it in
terms both of subject matter and of treatment or method, from the stand-
point of and as part of the struggle against imperial domination. For all of
them, the history of the Third World had to overcome the assumptions,
attitudes, and values implicit in colonial narratives. If this meant, as it
usually did, adopting a partisan position of advocacy, then so be it; it was
impossible to write of liberation and nationalism, however allusively, with-
out also declaring oneself for or against them. They were correct, I believe,
in presuming that in so globalizing a world-view as that of imperialism, there
could be no neutrality: one either was on the side of empire or against it, and,
since they themselves had lived the empire (as native or as white), there was
no getting away from it.
James’s Black Jacobins treats the Santo Domingo slave uprising as a process
unfolding within the same history as that of the French Revolution, and
Napoleon and Toussaint are the two great figures who dominate those
turbulent years. Events in France and in Haiti crisscross and refer to one
another like voices in a fugue. James’s narrative is broken up as a history
dispersed in geography, in archival sources, in emphases both Black and
French. Moreover James writes of Toussaint as someone who takes up the
struggle for human freedom — a struggle also going on in the metropolis to
which culturally he owes his language and many of his moral allegiances —
with a determination rare among subordinates, rarer still among slaves. He
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RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
appropriates the principles of the Revolution not as a Black man but as a
human, and he does so with a dense historical awareness of how in finding
the language of Diderot, Rousseau, and Robespierre one follows predeces-
sors creatively, using the same words, employing inflections that trans-
formed rhetoric into actuality.
Toussaint’s life ended terribly, as a prisoner of Napoleon, confined in
France. Yet the subject ofjames’s book properly speaking is not contained
in Toussaint’s biography any more than the history of the French Revolu-
tion would be adequately represented if the Haitian insurgency were left
out. The process continues into the present — hence James’s 1962 appendix,
“from Toussaint to Castro” — and the predicament remains. How can a non-
or post-imperial history be written that is not naively utopian or hopelessly
pessimistic, given the continuing embroiled actuality of domination in the
Third World? This is a methodological and meta-historical aporia, and
James’s swift resolution of it is brilliantly imaginative.
In digressing briefly to reinterpret Aime Cbsaire’s Cahierd'un retour au pays
natal, James discovers the poet’s movement through the deprivations of West
Indian life, through “the blue steel rigidities” and “vainglorious conquests”
of “the white world,” to the West Indies again, where in wishing to be free
from the hate he once felt toward his oppressors, the poet declares his
commitment “to be the cultivator of this unique race.” In other words,
C6saire finds that the continuation of imperialism means that there is some
need to think of “man” (the exclusively masculine emphasis is quite striking)
as something more than “a parasite in the world.” “To keep in step with the
world” is not the only obligation:
but the work of man is only just beginning
and it remains to man to conquer all
the violence entrenched in the recesses of his passion.
And no race possesses the monopoly of beauty,
of intelligence, of force, and there
is a place for all at the rendezvous
of victory . 201 (James's translation)
This, says James, is the very center of Cbsaire’s poem, precisely as Cbsaire
discovers that the defensive assertion of one’s identity, negritude, is not
enough, Negritude is just one contribution to “the rendezvous of victory.”
“The vision of the poet,” James adds, “is not economics or politics, it is
poetic, sui generis, true unto itself and needing no other truth. But it would
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Collaboration, Independence, and Liberation
28]
be the most vulgar racism not to see here a poetic incarnation of Marx’s
famous sentence, ‘The real history of humanity will begin.’ ” 202
At this moment James accomplishes another contrapuntal, non-narrative
turn. Instead of following C^saire back to West Indian or Third World
history, instead of showing his immediate poetic, ideological, or political
antecedents, James sets him next to his great Anglo-Saxon contemporary
T. S. Eliot, whose conclusion is “Incarnation”:
Here the impossible union
Of spheres of existence is actual.
Here the past and the future
Are conquered, and reconciled.
Where action were otherwise movement
Of that which is only moved
And has in it no source of movement . 203
By moving so unexpectedly from C^saire to Eliot’s “Dry Salvages,” verses
by a poet who, one might think, belongs to a totally different sphere, James
rides the poetic force of C£saire’s “truth unto itself” as a vehicle for crossing
over from the provincialism of one strand of history into an apprehension
of other histories, all of them animated by and actualized in an “impossible
union.” This is a literal instance of Marx’s stipulated beginning of human
history, and it gives to his prose the dimension of a social community as
actual as the history of a people, as general as the vision of the poet.
Neither an abstract, packaged theory, nor a disheartening collection of
narratable facts, this moment in James’s book embodies (and does not merely
represent or deliver) the energies of anti-imperialist liberation. I doubt that
anyone can take from it some repeatable doctrine, reusable theory, or
memorable story, much less the bureaucracy of a future state. One might
perhaps say that it is the history and politics of imperialism, of slavery,
conquest, and domination freed by poetry, for a vision bearing on, if not
delivering, true liberation. Insofar as it can be approximated in other begin-
nings then, like The Black Jacobins, it is a part of what in human history can
move us from the history of domination toward the actuality of liberation.
This movement resists the already charted and controlled narrative lanes
and skirts the systems of theory, doctrine, and orthodoxy. But, as James’s
whole work attests, it does not abandon the social principles of community,
critical vigilance, and theoretical orientation. And in contemporary Europe
and the United States, such a movement, with its audacity and generosity
of spirit, is particularly needed, as we advance into the twenty-first century.
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CHAPTER FOUR
FREEDOM FROM
DOMINATION IN THE
FUTURE
The new men of Empire are the ones who believe in fresh starts, new chapters,
new pages, I struggle on with the old story, hoping that before it is finished it
will reveal to me why it was that 1 thought it worth the trouble.
J. M. Coetzee, Waiting for the Barbarians
( > )
American Ascendancy: The Public Space at War
I mperialism did not end, did not suddenly become “past,” once decoloni-
zation had set in motion the dismantling of the classical empires. A legacy
of connections still binds countries like Algeria and India to France and
Britain respectively. A vast new population of Muslims, Africans, and West
Indians from former colonial territories now resides in metropolitan Europe;
even Italy, Germany, and Scandinavia today must deal with these disloca-
tions, which are to a large degree the result of imperialism and decoloniza-
tion as well as expanding European population. Also, the end of the Cold
War and of the Soviet Union has definitively changed the world map. The
triumph of the United States as the last superpower suggests that a new set
of force lines will structure the world, and they were already beginning to
be apparent in the 1960s and ’70s.
Michael Barratt-Brown, in a preface to the 1970 second edition of his After
Imperialism (196;), argues “that imperialism is still without question a most
powerful force in the economic, political and military relations by which the
less economically developed lands are subjected to the more economically
developed. We may still look forward to its ending.” 1 It is ironic that
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American Ascendancy: The Public Space at War 285
descriptions of the new form of imperialism have regularly employed idioms
of gigantism and apocalypse that could not have as easily been applied to the
classical empires during their heyday. Some of these descriptions have an
extraordinarily dispiriting inevitability, a kind of galloping, engulfing, im-
personal, and deterministic quality. Accumulation on a world scale; the
world capitalist system; the development of underdevelopment; imperialism
and dependency, or the structure of dependence; poverty and imperialism:
the repertory is well-known in economics, political science, history, and
sociology, and it has been identified less with the New World Order than
with members of a controversial Left school of thought. Nevertheless the
cultural implications of such phrases and concepts are discernible — -despite
their oft-debated and far from settled nature- — and, alas, they are undeniably
depressing to even the most untutored eye.
What are the salient features of the re-presentation of the old imperial
inequities, the persistence, in Arno Mayer’s telling phrase, of the old re-
gime? 2 One certainly is the immense economic rift between poor and rich
states, whose basically quite simple topography was drawn in the starkest
terms by the so-called Brandt Report, North-South: A Program for Survival
(i98o). } Its conclusions are couched in the language of crisis and emergency:
the poorest nations of the Southern Hemisphere must have their “priority
needs” addressed, hunger must be abolished, commodity earnings strength-
ened; manufacturing in the Northern Hemisphere should permit genuine
growth in Southern manufacturing centers, trans-national corporations
should be “restricted” in their practices, the global monetary system should
be reformed, development finance should be changed to eliminate what has
been accurately described as “the debt trap.” 4 The crux of the matter is, as
the report’s phrase has it, power-sharing, that is, giving the Southern coun-
tries a more equitable share in “power and decision-making within mone-
tary and financial institutions.” 5
It is difficult to disagree with the report’s diagnosis, which is made more
credible by its balanced tone and its silent picture of the untrammelled
rapacity, greed, and immorality of the North, or even with its recommenda-
tions. But how will the' changes come about? The post-war classifications of
all the nations into three “worlds” — coined by a French journalist — has
largely been abandoned. 4 Willy Brandt and his colleagues implicitly con-
cede that the United Nations, an admirable organization in principle, has not
been adequate to the innumerable regional and global conflicts that occur
with increasing frequency. With the exception of the work of small groups
(e.g., the World Order Models Project), global thinking tends to reproduce
the superpower, Cold War, regional, ideological, or ethnic contests of old,
even more dangerous in the p^c^ar.and post-npclear era, as the horrors of
284 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
Yugoslavia attest. The powerful are likely to get more powerful and richer,
the weak less powerful and poorer, the gap between the two overrides the
former distinctions between socialist and capitalist regimes that, in Europe
at least, have become less significant
In 1982 Noam Chomsky concluded that during the 1980s
the “North-South” conflict will not subside, and new forms of domi-
nation will have to be devised to ensure that privileged segments of
Western industrial society maintain substantial control over global
resources, human and material, and benefit disproportionately from
this control. Thus it comes as no surprise that the reconstitution of
ideology in the United States finds echoes throughout the industrial
world. . . . But it is an absolute requirement for the Western system of
ideology that a vast gulf be established between the civilized West, with
its traditional commitment to human dignity, liberty, and self-determi-
nation, and the barbaric brutality of those who for some reason —
perhaps defective genes — fail to appreciate the depth of this historic
commitment, so well revealed by America’s Asian wars, for example. 7
Chomsky’s move from the North-South dilemma to American, and West-
ern, dominance is, I think, basically correct, although the decrease in Ameri-
can economic power, the urban, economic, and cultural crisis in the United
States; the ascendancy of Pacific Rim states; and the confusions of a multi-
polar world have muted the stridency of the Reagan period. For one it
underlines the continuity of the ideological need to consolidate and justify
domination in cultural terms that has been the case in the West since the
nineteenth century, and even earlier, Second, it accurately picks up the
theme based on repeated projections and theorizations of American power,
sounded in often very insecure and therefore overstated ways, that we live
today in a period of American ascendancy.
Studies during the past decade of major personalities of the mid-
twentieth century illustrate what I mean. Ronald Steel’s Walter Lippmann and
the American Century represents the mind-set of that ascendancy as inscribed
in the career of the most famous American journalist — the one with the most
prestige and power — of this century. The extraordinary thing about Lipp-
mann ’s career as it emerges from Steel’s book is not that Lippmann was
correct or especially perspicacious with regard to his reporting or his predic-
tions about world events (he was not), but rather that from an “insider’s”
position (the term is his) he articulated American global dominance without
demurral, except for Vietnam, and that he saw his role as pundit to be that
of helping his compatriots to make “an adjustment to reality,” the reality of
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American Ascendancy: The Public Space at War 285
unrivalled American power in the world, which he made more acceptable
by stressing its moralism, realism, altruism with “a remarkable skill for not
straying too far from the thrust of public opinion.” 8
A similar view, albeit differently expressed as a mandarin’s more austere
and elite understanding of the American global role, is found in George
Kennan’s influential writing. The author of the containment policy that
guided United States official thinking for much of the Cold War period,
Kennan believed his country to be the guardian of Western civilization. For
him such a destiny in the non-European world implied no effort to be
expended on making the United States popular (“rotarian idealism” he
called it scornfully) but rather depended on “straight power concepts.” And
since no formerly colonized people or state had the wherewithal to chal-
lenge the United States militarily or economically, he cautioned restraint.
Yet in a memo written in 1948 for the Policy Planning Staff, he approved of
recolonizing Africa and also, in something he wrote in 1971, of apartheid (not
of its abuses however), although he disapproved of the American interven-
tion in Vietnam and generally of “a purely American kind of informal
imperial system.” 9 There was no doubt in his mind that Europe and America
were uniquely positioned to lead the world, a view that caused him to regard
his own country as a son of “adolescent” growing into the role once played
by the British empire.
Other forces shaped post-war United States foreign policy besides men
like Lippmann and Kennan — both lonely men alienated from the mass
society they lived in, who hated jingoism and the cruder forms of aggressive
American behavior. They knew that isolationism, interventionism, anti-
colonialism, free-trade imperialism were related to the domestic character-
istics of American political life described by Richard Hofstadter as
“anti-intellectual” and “paranoid”: these produced the inconsistencies, ad-
vances, and retreats of United States foreign policy before the end of World
War Two. Yet the idea of American leadership and exceptionalism is never
absent; no matter what the United States does, these authorities often do not
want it to be an imperial power like the others it followed, preferring instead
the notion of “world responsibility” as a rationale for what it does. Earlier
rationales — the Monroe Doctrine, Manifest Destiny, and so forth — lead to
“world responsibility,” which exactly corresponds to the growth in the
United States’ global interests after World War Two and to the conception
of its enormous power as formulated by the foreign policy and intellectual
elite.
In a persuasively clear account of what damage this has done, Richard
Barnet notes that a United States military intervention in the Third World
had occurred every year between 1945 and 1967 (when he stopped counting).
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X86 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
Since that time, the United States has been impressively active, most notably
during the Gulf War of 1991, when 650,000 troops were dispatched 6,000
miles to turn back an Iraqi invasion of a United States ally. Such interven-
tions, Barnet says in The Roots of War, have “all the elements of a powerful
imperial creed . . . : a sense of mission, historical necessity, and evangelical
fervor.” He continues:
The imperial creed rests on a theory of law-making. According to the
strident globalists, like [Lyndon Baines] Johnson, and the muted glo-
balists, like Nixon, the goal of U.S. foreign policy is to bring about a
world increasingly subject to the rule of law. But it is the United States
which must “organize the peace,” to use Secretary of State Rusk’s
words. The United States imposes the “international interest” by set-
ting the ground rules for economic development and military deploy-
ment across the planet. Thus the United States sets rules for Soviet
behavior in Cuba, Brazilian behavior in Brazil, Vietnamese behavior in
Vietnam. Cold War policy is expressed by a series of directives on such
extraterritorial matters as whether Britain may trade with Cuba or
whether the government of British Guiana may have a Marxist dentist
to run it. Cicero’s definition of the early Roman empire was remarkably
similar. It was the domain over which Rome enjoyed the legal right to
enforce the law. Today America’s self-appointed writ runs throughout
the world, including the Soviet Union and China, over whose territory
the U.S. government has asserted the right to fly military aircraft. The
United States, uniquely blessed with surpassing riches and an excep-
tional history, stands above the international system, not within it.
Supreme among nations, she stands ready to be the bearer of the Law. 10
Although these words were published in 1972, they even more accurately
describe the United States during the invasion of Panama and the Gulf War,
a country which continues to try to dictate its views about law and peace all
over the world. The amazing thing about this is not that it is attempted, but
that it is done with so much consensus and near unanimity in a public sphere
constructed as a kind of cultural space expressly to represent and explain it.
In periods of great internal crisis (e.g., a year or so after the Gulf War) this/
sort of moralistic triumphalism is suspended, put aside. Yet while it lasts the
media play an extraordinary role in “manufacturing consent” as Chomsky
calls it, in making the average American feel that it is up to “us” to right the
wrongs of the world, and the devil with contradictions and inconsistencies.
The Gulf intervention was preceded by a string of interventions (Panama,
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American Ascendancy; The Public Space at War
287
Grenada, Libya), all of them widely discussed, most of them approved, or
at least undeterred, as belonging to “us” by right. As Kieman puts it
“America loved to think that whatever it wanted was just what the human
race wanted.” 11
For years the United States government has had an active policy of direct
and announced intervention in the affairs of Central and South America:
Cuba, Nicaragua, Panama, Chile, Guatemala, Salvador, Grenada have had
attacks made on their sovereignty ranging from outright war to coups and
proclaimed subversion, from assassination attempts to the financing of “con-
tra” armies. In East Asia the United States fought two large wars, sponsored
massive military drives that caused hundreds of thousands of deaths at the
hands of a “friendly” government (Indonesia in East Timor), overturned
governments (Iran in 1953), and supported states in lawless activity, flouting
United Nations resolutions, contravening stated policy (Turkey, Israel). The
official line most of the time is that the United States is defending its
interests, maintaining order, bringing justice to bear upon injustice and
misbehavior. Yet, in the case of Iraq, the United States used the United
Nations Security Council to push through resolutions for war, at the same
time that in numerous other instances (Israel’s chief among them) United
Nations resolutions supported by the United States were unenforced or
ignored, and the United States had unpaid dues to the United Nations of
several hundred million dollars.
Dissenting literature has always survived in the United States alongside
the authorized public space; this literature can be described as oppositional
to the overall national and official performance. There are revisionist histori-
ans such as William Appleman Williams, Gabriel Kolko, and Howard Zinn,
powerful public critics like Noam Chomsky, Richard Barnet, Richard Falk,
and many others, all of them prominent not only as individual voices but as
members of a fairly substantial alternative and anti-imperial current within
the country. With them go such Left-liberal journals as Tbe Nation, The
Progressive, and, when its author was alive, /. F. Stone’s Weekly. How much of
a following there is for such views as represented by the opposition is very
difficult to say; there has always been an opposition — one thinks of anti-
imperialists like Mark Twain, William James, and Randolph Bourne — but
the depressing truth is that its deterrent power has not been effective. Such
views as opposed the United States attack on Iraq did nothing at all to stop,
postpone, or lessen its horrendous force. What prevailed was an extraordi-
nary mainstream consensus in which the rhetoric of the government, the
policymakers, the military, think tanks, media, and academic centers con-
verged on the necessity of United States force and the ultimate justice of its
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288 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
projection, for which a long history of theorists and apologists from Andrew
Jackson through Theodore Roosevelt to Henry Kissinger and Robert W.
Tucker furnished the preparation.
A correspondence is evident, but ffequendy disguised or forgotten, be-
tween the nineteenth-century doctrine of Manifest Destiny (the title of an
1890 book by John Fiske), the territorial expansion of the United States, the
enormous literature of justification (historical mission, moral regeneration,
the expansion of freedom: all of these studied in Albert K. Weinberg’s
massively documented 1958 work Manifest Destiny), 12 and the ceaselessly
repeated formulae about the need for an American intervention against this
or that aggression since World War Two. The correspondence is rarely
made explicit, and indeed disappears when the public drums of war are
sounded and hundreds of thousands of tons of bombs are dropped on a
distant and mosdy unknown enemy. The intellectual blotting-out of what
“we” do in the process interests me, since it is obvious that no imperial
mission or scheme can ever ultimately succeed in maintaining overseas
control forever, history also teaches us that domination breeds resistance,
and that the violence inherent in the imperial contest — for all its occasional
profit or pleasure — is an impoverishment for both sides. These truths hold
in an era saturated with the memory of past imperialisms. There are far too
many politicized people on earth today for any nation readily to accept the
finality of America’s historical mission to lead the world.
Enough work has been done by American cultural historians for us to
understand the sources of the drive to domination on a world scale as well
as the way that drive is represented and made acceptable. Richard Slotkin
argues, in Regeneration Through Violence, that the shaping experience of Amer-
ican history was the extended wars with the native American Indians; this
in turn produced an image of Americans not as plain killers (as D. H.
Lawrence said of them) but as “a new race of people, independent of the
sin-darkened heritage of man, seeking a totally new and original relationship
to pure nature as hunters, explorers, pioneers and seekers.” 13 Such imagery
keeps recurring in nineteenth-century literature, most memorably in Mel-
ville’s Moby-Dick, where, as C.L.R. James and V. G. Kieman have argued
from a non-American perspective, Captain Ahab is an allegorical represen-
tation of the American world quest; he is obsessed, compelling, unstoppable,
completely wrapped up in his own rhetorical justification and his sense of
cosmic symbolism. 14
No one would want to reduce Melville’s great work to a mere literary
decoration of events in the real world; besides, Melville himself was very
critical of what Ahab was up to as an American. Yet the fact is that during
the nineteenth century the United States did expand territorially, most often
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289
at the expense of native peoples, and in time came to gain hegemony over
the North American continent and the territories and seas adjacent to it
Nineteenth-century offshore experiences ranged from the North African
coast to the Philippines, China, Hawaii, and of course throughout the Carib-
bean and Central America. The broad tendency was to expand and extend
control farther, and not to spend much time reflecting on the integrity and
independence of Others, for whom the American presence was at very best
a mixed blessing.
An extraordinary, but nevertheless typical, example of American wilful-
ness is at hand in the relationship between Haiti and the United States. As
J. Michael Dash reads it in Haiti and the United States: National Stereotypes and
the Literary Imagination, almost from the moment Haiti gained its indepen-
dence as a Black republic in 1803 Americans tended to imagine it as a void
into which they could pour their own ideas. Abolitionists, says Dash, thought
of Haiti not as a place with its own integrity and people but as a convenient
site for relocating freed slaves. Later the island and its people came to
represent degeneracy and of course racial inferiority. The United States
occupied the island in 1915 (and Nicaragua in 1916) and set in place a native
tyranny that exacerbated an already desperate state of affairs. 15 And when in
1991 and 1992 thousands of Haitian refugees tried to gain entry into Florida,
most were forcibly returned.
Few Americans have agonized over places like Haiti or Iraq once the
crisis or their country’s actual intervention was over. Strangely, and despite
both its intercontinental range and its genuinely various elements, American
domination is insular. The foreign -policy elite has no long-standing tradi-
tion of direct rule overseas, as was the case with the British or the French,
so American attention works in spurts; great masses of rhetoric and huge
resources are lavished somewhere (Vietnam, Libya, Iraq, Panama), followed
by virtual silence. Again Kiernan: “More multifarious than the British em-
pire, the new hegemony was even less capable of finding any coherent
programme of action other than of bullheaded negation. Hence its readiness
to let plans be made for it, by company directors or secret agents.” 16
Granted that American expansionism is principally economic, it is still
highly dependent and moves together with, upon, cultural ideas and ideolo-
gies about America itself, ceaselessly reiterated in public. “An economic
system,” Kiernan rightly reminds us, “like a nation or a religion, lives not by
bread alone, but by beliefs, visions, daydreams as well, and these may be no
less vital to it for being erroneous.” 1 5 There is a kind of monotony to the
regularity of schemes, phrases, or theories produced by successive genera-
tions to justify' the serious responsibilities of American global reach. Recent
scholarship by Americans paints a bleak picture of how most of these
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290 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
attitudes and the policies they gave rise to were based on almost petulant
misinterpretations and ignorance, unrelieved except by a desire for mastery
and domination, itself stamped by ideas of American exceptionalism. The
relationship between America and its Pacific or Far Eastern interlocutors —
China, Japan, Korea, Indochina — is informed by racial prejudice, sudden
and relatively unprepared rushes of attention followed by enormous pres-
sure applied thousands of miles away, geographically and intellectually
distant from the lives of most Americans. Taking into account the scholarly
revelations, of Akiri Iriye, Masao Miyoshi,John Dower, and Marilyn Young,
we see that there was a great deal of misunderstanding of the United States
by these Asian countries, but, with the complicated exception ofjapan, they
did not actually penetrate the American continent.
One can see this extraordinary asymmetry full blown with the emergence
in the United States of the discourse (and the policies) of Development and
Modernization, an actuality treated in Graham Greene’s novel The Quiet
American, and with somewhat less comprehending skill in Lederer and Bur-
dick’s The Ugly American. A truly amazing conceptual arsenal — theories of
economic phases, social types, traditional societies, systems transfers,
pacification, social mobilization, and so on — was deployed throughout the
world; universities and think tanks received huge government subsidies to
pursue these ideas, many of which commanded the attention of strategic
planners and policy experts in (or close to) the United States government.
Not until the great popular disquiet at the Vietnamese war did critical
scholars pay attention to this, but then, almost for the first time, the criticism
was heard not just of United States policy in Indochina but of the imperialist
premises of United States attitudes to Asia. A persuasive account of the
Development and Modernization discourse that takes advantage of the
anti-war critique is Irene Gendzier’s volume, Managing Political Change . 19
She shows how the unexamined drive to global reach had the effect of
depoliticizing, reducing, and sometimes even eliminating the integrity of
overseas societies that seemed in need of modernizing and of what Walt
Whitman Rostow called “economic take-off.”
Although these characterizations are not exhaustive, they do, I think,
accurately describe a general policy with considerable social authority,
which created what D.C.M. Platt called in the British context a “departmen-
tal view.” The leading academic figures analyzed by Gendzier — Hunting-
ton, Pye, Verba, Lerner, Lasswell — determined the intellectual agenda and
the perspectives of influential sectors of the government and academy.
Subversion, radical nationalism, native arguments for independence: all
these phenomena of decolonization and the aftermath of classical imperial-
ism were seen within the guidelines provided by the Cold War. They had
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American Ascendancy: The Public Space at War
291
to be subverted or co-opted; in the case of Korea, China, Vietnam they
required a renewed commitment to expensive military campaigns. The
apparent challenge to American authority in the almost laughable case of
post-Batista Cuba suggests that what was at stake was hardly security but
rather a sense that within its self-defined domain (the hemisphere) the
United States would not accept any infringements or sustained ideological
challenges to what it considered to be “freedom.”
This twinning of power and legitimacy, one force obtaining in the world
of direct domination, the other in the cultural sphere, is a characteristic of
classical imperial hegemony. Where it differs in the American cenrury is the
quantum leap in the reach of cultural authority, thanks in large measure to
the unprecedented growth in the apparatus for the diffusion and control of
information. As we shall see, the media are central to the domestic culture.
Whereas a century ago European culture was associated with a white man’s
presence, indeed with his directly domineering (and hence resistible) physi-
cal presence, we now have in addition an international media presence that
insinuates itself, frequently at a level below conscious awareness, over a
fantastically wide range. The phrase “cultural imperialism,” made current
and even fashionable by Jacques Lang, loses some of its meaning when
applied to the presence of television serials like Dynasty and Dallas in, say
France or Japan, but becomes pertinent again when viewed in a global
perspective.
The closest thing to such a perspective was offered in the report published
by the International Commission for the Study of Communication Problems
convened at the behest of UNESCO and chaired by Sean McBride: Many
Voices, One World (1980), which addressed the so-called New World Informa-
tion Order. 19 A great many often irrelevant words of angry analysis and
attack have been heaped upon this report, most of them from American
journalists and all-purpose sages who upbraid “the Communists” and “the
Third World” for trying to curtail press democracy, the free flow of ideas,
the market forces that shape telecommunications, the press and computer
industries. But even the most cursory glance at the McBride Report will
reveal that far from recommending simpleminded solutions like censorship,
there was considerable doubt among most of the commission members that
anything very much could be done to bring balance and equity in the
anarchic world information order. Even not entirely sympathetic writers, for
instance, Anthony Smith in The Geopolitics of Information, concede the serious-
ness of the issues:
The threat to independence in the late twentieth century from the new
electronics could be greater than was colonialism itself. We are begin-
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K)1 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
ning to leam that de-colonization and the growth of supra-nationalism
were not the termination of imperial relationships but merely the
extending of a geo-political web which has been spinning since the
Renaissance. The new media have the power to penetrate more deeply
into a “receiving” culture than any previous manifestation of Western
technology. The results could be immense havoc, an intensification of
the social contradictions within developing societies today. 20
No one has denied that the holder of greatest power in this configuration
is the United States, whether because a handful of American trans-national
corporations control the manufacture, distribution, and above all selection
of news relied on by most of the world (even Saddam Hussein seems to have
relied on CNN for his news), or because the effectively unopposed expan-
sion of various forms of cultural control that emanate from the United States
has created a new mechanism of incorporation and dependence by which to
subordinate and compel not only a domestic American constituency but also
weaker and smaller cultures. Some of the work done by critical theorists — in
particular, Herbert Marcuse’s notion of one-dimensional society, Adorno
and Enzensberger’s consciousness industry — has clarified the nature of the
mix of repression and tolerance used as instruments of social pacification in
Western societies (issues debated a generation ago by George Orwell, Al-
dous Huxley, and James Burnham); the influence of Western, and particu-
larly American media imperialism on the rest of the world reinforces the
findings of the McBride Commission, as do also the highly important find-
ings by Herbert Schiller and Armand Mattelart about the ownership of the
means of producing and circulating images, news, and representations. 21
Yet before the media go abroad so to speak, they are effective in repre-
senting strange and threatening foreign cultures for the home audience,
rarely with more success in creating an appetite for hostility and violence
against these cultural “Others” than during the Gulf crisis and war of
19510-91. Nineteenth-century Britain and France used to send expeditionary
forces to bomb natives — “it appears,” Conrad’s Marlow says as he gets to
Africa, “that the French had one of their wars going on thereabouts. ... In
the empty immensity of earth, sky, and water, there she [a French man-of-
war] was, incomprehensible, firing into a continent. Pop, would go one of the
six-inch guns” — now the United States does it. Consider now how the Gulf
War was made acceptable: in mid-December 1990 a small-scale debate
occurred on the pages of The Wall Street Journal and The Nev> York Times:
Karen Elliott House of the former versus Anthony Lewis of the latter.
House’s thesis was that the United States should not wait for sanctions to
work, but ought to attack Iraq, making Saddam Hussein a clear loser. Lewis’s
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American Ascendancy: The Public Space at War 293
rebuttal displayed his usual measure of reasonableness and liberal good faith,
qualities that have distinguished him among prominent American colum-
nists. A supporter of George Bush’s initial response to Iraq’s invasion of
Kuwait, Lewis now felt that the prospects of an early war were high, and
ought to be resisted. He was impressed by the arguments of people like the
super-hawk Paul Nitze, who had been saying that a large assortment of
disasters would occur if an American ground offensive was undertaken in the
Gulf. The United States should wait, increase economic and diplomatic
pressure, then the case for a much later war might be plausible. A couple of
weeks later the wo antagonists appeared on the MacNeil/Lehrer NewsHour,
a nightly national program that permits lengthy discussion and analysis, to
dramatize their earlier positions. To watch the debate was to see opposed
philosophies engaged in earnest discussion at a sensitive moment in the
national experience. The United States seemed poised for war: here were
the pros and cons eloquently put within the sanctioned public space, a
national nightly news program.
As realists both House and Lewis accepted the principle that “we” — this
pronoun, almost more than any other word, fortifies the somewhat illusory
sense that all Americans, as co-owners of the public space, participate in the
decisions to commit America to its far-flung foreign interventions — ought
to be in the Gulf, regulating the behavior of states, armies, and peoples several
thousand miles away. National survival was not an issue and never came up.
But there was much talk of principles, morality, and right; both spoke of
military force as something more or less at their disposal, to deploy, use, and
withdraw appropriately, and in all this the United Nations seemed at best
an extension of United States policy. This particular debate was depressing
because both antagonists were considerable people, neither predictable
hawks (like Henry Kissinger, who never tired of “surgical strikes”) nor
national security experts (like Zbigniew Brzezinski, who energetically op-
posed the war on solidly geo-political grounds).
For both House and Lewis, “our” actions were part of the assumed
heritage of American actions in the world at large, where America has
intervened for two centuries with often devastating, but routinely forgotten,
results. Rarely in the debate was there mention of the Arabs as having
something to do with the war, as its victims, for instance, or (equally
convincingly) its instigators. One had the impression that the crisis was
entirely to be dealt with in petto, as an internal issue for Americans. The
impending conflagration, with its unconcealed and certain likelihood of
terrible destruction, was distant, and once again, except for the (very few)
arriving body bags and bereaved families, Americans were largely spared.
The abstract quality imparted coldness and cruelty to the situation.
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294 FREEDOM from domination in the future
As an American and Arab who lived in both worlds, I found all this
particularly troubling, not least because the confrontation appeared so total,
so globally all-encompassing; there was no way of not being involved. Never
had nouns designating the Arab world or its components been so bandied
about; never had they had so strangely abstract and diminished a meaning,
and rarely did any regard or care accompany them, even though the United
States was not at war with all the Arabs. The Arab world compelled fascina-
tion and interest and yet withheld affection or enthusiastic and particular
knowledge. No major cultural group, for example, was (and still is) as little
known: if one were to ask an American au courant with recent fiction or
poetry for the name of an Arab writer, probably the only one to come up
would still be Kahlil Gibran. How could there be so much interaction on one
level, and so little actuality on the other?
From the Arab point of view, the picture is just as skewed. There is still
hardly any literature in Arabic that portrays Americans; the most interesting
exception is Abdelrahman el Munif ’s massive series of novels Cities of Salt , 21
but his books are banned in several countries, and his native Saudi Arabia
has stripped him of his citizenship. To my knowledge there is still no
institute or major academic department in the Arab world whose main
purpose is the study of America, although the United States is by far the
largest, most significant outside force in the contemporary Arab world. Some
Arab leaders who spend their lives denouncing American interests also
expend considerable energies getting their children into American universi-
ties and arranging for green cards. It is still difficult to explain even to
well-educated and experienced fellow Arabs that United States foreign
policy is not in fact run by the CIA, or a conspiracy, or a shadowy network
of key “contacts”; nearly everyone that I know believes the United States
plans virtually every event of significance in the Middle East including even,
in a mind-boggling suggestion made to me once, the Palestinian intifada.
This fairly stable mix of long familiarity (well described in James Field’s
America and the Mediterranean World ) 22 hostility, and ignorance pertains on
both sides of a complex, uneven, and relatively recent cultural encounter.
The overriding sense one had at the time of Operation Desert Storm was
inevitability, as if President Bush’s declared need “to get down there” and
(in his own sporty argot) “kick ass” bad to run up against Saddam Hussein’s
sternly brutal expression of the post-colonial Arab need to confront, talk
back to, stand unblinkingly before the United States. The public rhetoric, in
other words, was undeterred, uncomplicated by considerations of detail,
realism, cause or effect. For at least a decade movies about American com-
mandos pitted a hulking Rambo or technically whiz-like Delta Force against
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American Ascendancy: Tie Public Space at War 29 c
Arab/Muslim terrorist-desperadoes; in 1991 it was as if an almost metaphysi-
cal intention to rout Iraq had sprung into being, not because Iraq’s offense,
though great, was cataclysmic, but because a small non-white country had
disturbed or rankled a suddenly energized super-nation imbued with a
fervor that could only be satisfied with compliance or subservience from
“sheikhs,” dictators, and camel-jockeys. The truly acceptable Arabs would
be those who like Anwar Sadat seemed purified almost completely of their
bothersome national selfhood and might become folksy talk-show guests.
Historically the American, and perhaps generally the Western, media
have been sensory extensions of the main cultural context. Arabs are only
an attenuated recent example of Others who have incurred the wrath of a
stem White Man, a kind of Puritan superego whose errand into the wilder-
ness knows few boundaries and who will go to great lengths indeed to make
his points. Yet of course the word “imperialism” was a conspicuously missing
ingredient in American discussions about the Gulf. “In the United States,”
according to historian Richard W. Van Alstyne in The Rising American Empire,
“it is almost heresy to describe the nation as an empire.” 24 Yet he shows that
the early founders of the Republic, including George Washington, charac-
terized the country as an empire, with a subsequent foreign policy that
renounced revolution and promoted imperial growth. He quotes one states-
man after another arguing, as Reinhold Niebuhr put it caustically, that the
country was “God’s American Israel,” whose “mission” was to be “trustee
under God of the civilization of the world.” It was therefore difficult not to
hear echoes of that same grandiose self-endowment at the time of the Gulf
War. And as the Iraqi infraction seemed actually to grow before the collec-
tive eyes of the nation, Saddam became Hitler, the butcher of Baghdad, the
madman (as described by Senator Alan Simpson) who was to be brought low.
Anyone who has read Moby-Dick may have found it irresistible to extrapo-
late from that great novel to the real world, to see the American empire
preparing once again, like Ahab, to take after an imputed evil. First comes
the unexamined moral mission, then, in the media, its military-geo-strategic
extension. The most disheartening thing about the media — aside from their
sheepishly following the government policy model, mobilizing for war right
from the start — was their trafficking in “expert” Middle East lore, sup-
posedly well-informed about Arabs. All roads lead to the bazaar; Arabs only
understand force; brutality and violence are part of Arab civilization; Islam
is an intolerant, segregationist, “medieval,” fanatic, cruel, anti-woman reli-
gion. The context, framework, setting of any discussion was limited, indeed
frozen, by these ideas. There seemed considerable but inexplicable enjoy-
ment to be had in the prospect that at last “the Arabs” as represented by
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296 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
Saddam were going to get their comeuppance. Many scores would be settled
against various old enemies of the West; Palestinians, Arab nationalism,
Islamic civilization.
What got left out was enormous. Little was reported on oil company
profits, or how the surge in oil prices had little to do with supply; oil
continued to be overproduced. The Iraqi case against Kuwait, or even the
nature of Kuwait itself — liberal in some ways, illiberal in others — received
next to no hearing. Little was said or analyzed about the complicity and
hypocrisy of the Gulf states, the United States, Europe, and Iraq together
during the Iran-Iraq War. Opinion on such issues circulated well after the
war, for example, in an essay by Theodore Draper in The New York Review
of Books (January 16, 1992), which suggested that some acknowledgement of
Iraq’s claim against Kuwait might have staved off a war. There were efforts
made by a small handful of scholars to analyze the popular rallying of some
Arabs to Saddam, despite the unattractiveness of his rule, but these efforts
were not integrated into, or allowed equal time with the peculiar inflections
of American policy, which for a time promoted Saddam, then demonized
him, then learned how to live with him all over again.
It is curious and profoundly symptomatic of the Gulf conflict that one
word that was tediously pronounced and repronounced and yet left unan-
alyzed was “linkage,” an ugly solecism that seems to have been invented as
a symbol of the unexamined American right to ignore or include whole
geographical sections of the globe in its considerations. During the Gulf
crisis, “linkage” meant not that there was, but that there was no connection
between things that in fact belonged together by common association, sense,
geography, history. These were sundered, left apart for convenience’s sake
and for the benefit of imperious United States policymakers, military strate-
gists, and area experts. Every one his own carver, saidjonathan Swift. That
the Middle East was linked internally by all sorts of ties — that was irrelevant.
That Arabs might see a connection between Saddam in Kuwait and, say,
Turkey in Cyprus — that too was pointless. That United States policy itself
was a linkage was a forbidden topic, most of all for pundits whose role was
to manage popular consent for a war though it never actually emerged.
The entire premise was colonial: that a small Third World dictatorship,
nurtured and supported by the West, did not have the right to challenge
America, which was white and superior. Britain bombed Iraqi troops in the
1920s for daring to resist colonial rule; seventy years later the United States
did it but with a more moralistic tone, which did little to conceal the thesis
that Middle East oil reserves were an American trust. Such practices are
anachronistic and supremely mischievous, since they not only make wars
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American Ascendancy: The Public Space at War 297
continuously possible and attractive, but also prevent a secure knowledge of
history, diplomacy, and politics from having the importance it should.
An article that appeared in the Winter 1990-91 issue of Foreign Affairs,
entitled “The Summer of Arab Discontent,” opens with the following pas-
sage, which perfectly encapsulates the sorry state of knowledge and power
that gave rise to Operation Desert Storm:
No sooner had the Arab/Muslim world said farewell to the wrath and
passion of the Ayatollah Khomeini’s crusade than another contender
rose in Baghdad. The new claimant was made of material different from
the turbaned saviour from Qum: Saddam Hussein was not a writer of
treatises in Islamic government nor a product of high learning in
religious seminaries. Not for him were the drawn-out ideological strug-
gles for the hearts and minds of the faithful. He came from a brittle
land, a frontier country between Persia and Arabia, with little claim to
culture and books and grand ideas. The new contender was a despot,
a ruthless and skilled warden who had tamed his domain and turned it
into a large prison. 2 '
Yet even schoolchildren know that Iraq was the seat of Abbasid civilization,
the highest flowering of Arab culture between the ninth and twelfth centu-
ries, which produced works of literature still read today as Shakespeare,
Dante, and Dickens are still read, and that, as a capital city, Baghdad is also
one of the great monuments of Islamic art. 26 In addition, it is where, along
with Cairo and Damascus, the nineteenth- and twentieth-century revival of
Arab art and literature took place. Baghdad produced at least five of the
greatest twentieth -century Arab poets and without any question most of its
leading artists, architects, and sculptors, Even though Saddam was a Takrili,
to imply that Iraq and its citizens had no relation to books and ideas is to
be amnesiac about Sumer, Babylon, Nineveh, Hammurabi, Assyria, and all
the great monuments of ancient Mesopotamian (and world) civilization,
whose cradle Iraq is. To say in so unqualified a way that Iraq was a “brittle”
land, with the suggestion of overall aridity and emptiness, is also to show an
ignorance that an elementary schoolchild would be embarrassed to reveal.
What happened to the verdant valleys of the Tigris and the Euphrates?
What happened to the ancient truth that, of all the countries in the Middle
East, Iraq has been by far the most fertile?
The author sings the praises of contemporary Saudi Arabia, more brittle
and out of touch with books, ideas, and culture than Iraq ever was. My point
is not to belittle Saudi Arabia, which is an important country and has much
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298 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
to contribute. But such writing as this is symptomatic of the intellectual will
to please power in public, to tell it what it wants to hear, to say to it that it
could go ahead and kill, bomb, and destroy, since what would be being
attacked was really negligible, brittle, with no relationship to books, ideas,
cultures, and no relation either, it gently suggests, to real people. With such
information about Iraq, what forgiveness, what humanity, what chance for
humane argument? Very little, alas. Hence the rather sodden and uneu-
phoric commemoration of Operation Desert Storm a year after it, with even
right-wing columnists and intellectuals bewailing President Bush’s “imperial
presidency” and the inconclusiveness of a war that merely prolonged the
country’s many crises.
The world cannot long afford so heady a mixture of patriotism, relative
solipsism, social authority, unchecked aggressiveness, and defensiveness to-
ward others. Today the United States is triumphalist internationally, and
seems in a febrile way eager to prove that it is number one, perhaps to offset
the recession, the endemic problems posed by the cities, poverty, health,
education, production, and the Euro-Japanese challenge. Although an
American, I grew up in a cultural framework suffused with the idea that Arab
nationalism was all-important, also that it was an aggrieved and unfulfilled
nationalism, beset with conspiracies, enemies both internal and external,
obstacles to overcome for which no price was too high.
My Arab environment had been largely colonial, but as I was growing up
you could travel overland from Lebanon and Syria through Palestine to
Egypt and points west. Today that is impossible. Each country places formi-
dable obstacles at the borders. (And for Palestinians, crossing is an especially
horrible experience, since often the countries who support Palestine loudly
treat actual Palestinians the Worst.) Arab nationalism has not died, but has
all too often resolved itself into smaller and smaller units. Here too linkage
comes last in the Arab setting. The past wasn’t better, but it was more
healthily interlinked, so to speak; people were actually connected to one
another, rather than staring at one another over fortified frontiers. In many
schools you would encounter Arabs from everywhere, Muslims and Chris-
tians, plus Armenians, Jews, Greeks, Italians, Indians, Iranians, all mixed up,
all under one or another colonial regime, but interacting as if it were natural
to do so. Today state nationalisms fracture into clan or sectarian ones.
Lebanon and Israel are perfect examples of what has happened: the desir-
ability of rigid cantonization in one form or another is present nearly
everywhere as a group feeling if not practice, and is subsidized by the state,
with its bureaucracies and secret polices. Rulers are clans, families, cliques,
closed circles of aging oligarchs, almost mythologically immune, like Garcfa
Marquez’s autumnal patriarch, to new blood or change.
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*99
The effort to homogenize and isolate populations in the name of national-
ism ( not liberation) has led to colossal sacrifices and failures. In most parts
of the Arab world, civil society (universities, the media, and culture broadly
speaking) has been swallowed up by political society, whose main form is the
state. One of the great achievements of the early post-war Arab nationalist
governments was mass literacy: in Egypt the results were dramatically
beneficial almost beyond imagining. Yet the mixture of accelerated literacy
and tub-thumping ideology exactly bears out Fanon’s fears. My impression
is that more effort is spent in sustaining the connection, bolstering the idea
that to be Syrian, Iraqi, Egyptian, or Saudi is a sufficient end, rather than in
thinking critically, even audaciously, about the national program itself
Identity, always identity, over and above knowing about others.
In this lopsided state of affairs, militarism gained far too many privileges
in the Arab world’s moral economy. Much of the reason has to do with the
sense of being unjustly treated, for which Palestine was not only a metaphor
but a reality. But was the only answer military force, huge armies, brassy
slogans, bloody promises, and, along with that, endless concrete instances of
militarism, starting with catastrophically lost wars at the top and working
down to physical punishment and menacing gestures at the bottom? I do not
know a single Arab who would demur in private, or who would not readily
agree that the state’s monopoly on coercion has almost completely elimi-
nated democracy in the Arab world, introduced immense hostility between
rulers and ruled, placed much too high value on conformity, opportunism,
flattery, and getting along rather than on risking new ideas, criticism, or
dissent.
Taken far enough this produces exterminism, the notion that if you do not
get your way or something displeases you it is possible simply to blot it out
That notion was surely in some way behind Iraq’s aggression against Kuwait.
What sort of muddled and anachronistic idea of Bismarckian “integration”
Was it to wipe out a country and smash its society with “Arab unity” as the
goal? The most disheartening thing was that so many people, many of them
victims of the same brutal logic, appear to have supported the action and
sympathized not at all with Kuwait. Even if one grants that Kuwaitis were
unpopular (does one have to be popular not to be exterminated?) and even
if Iraq claimed to champion Palestine in standing up to Israel and the United
States, surely the very idea that a nation should be obliterated along the way
is a murderous proposition, unfit for a great civilization. It is a measure of
the dreadful state of political culture in the Arab world today that such
exterminism is current.
Oil, however much it may have brought development and prosperity — it
did — where it was associated with violence, ideological refinement, political
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300 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
defensiveness, and cultural dependency on the United States created more
rifts and social problems than it healed. For anyone who thinks of the Arab
world as possessing a plausible sort of internal cohesion, the general air of
mediocrity and corruption that hangs over this region that is limitlessly
wealthy, superbly endowed culturally and historically, and amply blessed
with gifted individuals is an immense puzzle and of course disappointment.
Democracy in any real sense of the word is nowhere to be found in the
still “nationalistic” Middle East: there are either privileged oligarchies or
privileged ethnic groups. The large mass of people is crushed beneath
dictatorship or unyielding, unresponsive, unpopular government. But the
notion that the United States is a virtuous innocent in this dreadful state of
affairs is unacceptable, as is the proposition that the Gulf War was not a War
between George Bush and Saddam Hussein — it most certainly was — and
that the United States acted solely and principally in the interests of the
United Nations. At bottom it was a personalized struggle between, on the
one hand, a Third World dictator of the kind that the United States has long
dealt with (Haile Selassie, Somoza, Syngman Rhee, the Shah of Iran, Pino-
chet, Marcos, Noriega, etc.), whose rule it encouraged, whose favors it long
enjoyed, and, on the other, the president of a country which has taken on
the mantle of empire inherited from Britain and France and was determined
to remain in the Middle East for its oil and for reasons of geo-strategic and
political advantage.
For two generations the United States has sided in the Middle East mostly
with tyranny and injustice. No struggle for democracy, or women’s rights,
or secularism and the rights of minorities has the United States officially
supported. Instead one administration after another has propped up compli-
ant and unpopular clients, and turned away from the efforts of small peoples
to liberate themselves from military occupation, while subsidizing their
enemies. The United States has prompted unlimited militarism and (along
with France, Britain, China, Germany, and others) engaged in vast arms
sales everywhere in the region, mostly to governments which were driven
to more and more extreme positions as a result of the United States’ obses-
sion with, and exaggeration of the power of Saddam Hussein. To conceive
of a post-war Arab world dominated by the rulers of Egypt, Saudi Arabia,
and Syria, all of them working in a new Pax Americana as part of the New
World Order is neither intellectually nor morally credible.
There has not yet developed a discourse in the American public space
that does anything more than identify with power, despite the dangers of
that power in a world which has shrunk so small and has become so
impressively interconnected. The United States cannot belligerently pre-
sume the right, with 6 percent of the world’s population, to consume 30
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American Ascendancy: The Public Space at War 301
percent of the world’s energy, for example. But that is not all. For decades
in America there has been a cultural war against the Arabs and Islam:
appalling racist caricatures of Arabs and Muslims suggest that they are all
either terrorists or sheikhs, and that the region is a large arid slum, fit only
for profit or war. The very notion that there might be a history, a culture,
a society — indeed many societies — has not held the stage for more than a
moment or two, not even during the chorus of voices proclaiming the virtues
of “multiculturalism.” A flow of trivial instant books by journalists flooded
the market and gained currency for a handful of dehumanizing stereotypes,
all of them rendering the Arabs essentially as one or another variant of
Saddam. As to the unfortunate Kurdish and Shi'ite insurgents, who were
first encouraged by the United States to rise up against Saddam, then aban-
doned to his merciless revenge, they are scarcely remembered, much less
mentioned.
After the sudden disappearance of Ambassador April Glaspie, who had
long experience in the Middle East, the American administration had hardly
any highly placed professional with any real knowledge or experience of the
Middle East, its languages or its peoples. And after the systematic attack on
its civilian infrastructure, Iraq is still being destroyed — by starvation, dis-
ease, and desperation — not because of its aggression against Kuwait, but
because the United States wants a physical presence in the Gulf and an
excuse to be there, wants to have direct leverage on oil to affect Europe and
Japan, because it wishes to set the world agenda, because Iraq is still per-
ceived as a threat to Israel.
Loyalty and patriotism should be based on a critical sense of what the facts
are, and what, as residents of this shrinking and depleted planet, Americans
owe their neighbors and the rest of mankind. Uncritical solidarity with the
policy of the moment, especially when it is so unimaginably costly, cannot
be allowed to rule.
Desert Storm was ultimately an imperial war against the Iraqi people, an
effort to break and kill them as pan of an effort to break and kill Saddam
Hussein. Yet this anachronistic and singularly bloody aspect was largely kept
from the American television audience, as a way of maintaining its image as
a painless Nintendo fexercise, and the image of Americans as virtuous, clean
warriors. It might have made a difference even to Americans who are not
normally interested in history to know that the last time Baghdad was
destroyed was in 1258 by the Mongols, although the British furnish a more
recent precedent for violent behavior against Arabs.
The absence of any significant domestic deterrent to this extraordinary
example of an almost unimaginable collective violence unleashed by the
United States against a distant non-white enemy is illuminated when we
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302 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
read Kieman’s account of why American intellectuals except for individuals
and groups, as opposed to “enough numbers to give them [the criticisms]
practical weight,” were so uncritical of the country’s behavior during the
1970s. Kiernan concedes that “the country’s longstanding pride in itself as a
new civilization” was real, but that it “lent itself perilously to perversion by
demagogues” was also real. There was a danger that that sense of self-pride
was becoming too much like Bismarckian Kultur, “with ‘culture’ hardening
into technological ‘know-how.’ ” In addition, and “like Britain’s former sense
of superiority, that of Americans was buttressed by a high degree of insula-
tion from and ignorance of the rest of the world.” Finally:
This remoteness has helped to give the American intelligentsia in
modem times an analogous remoteness from life, or historical reality.
It was not easy for dissidents to break the barrier. There was a certain
shallowness, a failure to rise much above the level of journalism, in the
literature of protest in the inter-war years It lacked the imaginative
depth or resonance which can only be derived from a responsive
environment. . . . From the World War onward, intellectuals were
drawn increasingly into public activities whose ultimate dynamo was
the military-industrial complex. They took part in strategic planning,
and the development of scientific warfare and counter-insurgency,
were flatteringly invited to the White House, and rewarded presidents
with the incense due to royalty. All through the Cold War, scholars
engaged in Latin American studies, underwrote the ideology of “good
neighborship,” of the harmony of interests between the U.S. and the
rest of the world. Chomsky had good reason to speak of the “over-
whelming urgency” of the need to counteract “the effects of a genera-
tion of indoctrination and a long history of self-adulation”; he appealed
to intellectuals to open their eyes to the “tradition of naivete and
self-righteousness that disfigures our intellectual history.” 27
This applies with great force to the Gulf War of 1991. Americans watched
the war on television with a relatively unquestioned certainty that they were
seeing the reality, whereas what they saw was the most Covered and the least
reported war in history. The images and the prints were controlled by the
government, and the major American media copied one another, and were
in turn copied or shown (like CNN) all over the world. Hardly any attention
to speak of was paid to the damage done to the enemy at the same time that
some intellectuals were silent and felt helpless, or contributed to the “pub-
lic” discussion in terms that were accommodated uncritically to the imperial
desire to go to war.
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Challenging Orthodoxy and Authority
3°3
So pervasive has the professionalization of intellectual life become that
the sense of vocation, as Julien Benda described it for the intellectual, has
been almost swallowed up. Policy-oriented intellectuals have internalized
the norms of the state, which when it understandably calls them to the
capital, in effect becomes their patron. The critical sense is often conve-
niently jettisoned. As for intellectuals whose charge includes values and
principles — literary, philosophical, historical specialists — the American uni-
versity, with its munificence, utopian sanctuary, and remarkable diversity,
has defanged them. Jargons of an almost unimaginable rebarbadveness dom-
inate their styles. Cults like post-modernism, discourse analysis, New His-
toricism, deconstruction, neo-pragmatism transport them into the country of
the blue; an astonishing sense of weightlessness with regard to the gravity
of history and individual responsibility fritters away attention to public
matters, and to public discourse. The result is a kind of floundering about
that is most dispiriting to witness, even as the society as a whole drifts
without direction or coherence. Racism, poverty, ecological ravages, disease,
and an appallingly widespread ignorance: these are left to the media and the
odd political candidate during an election campaign.
ot that we have wanted for extremely loud reminders of Chomsky’s
“reconstitution of ideology,” whose elements include notions about
Western Judeo-Christian triumphalism, the inherent backwardness of the
non- Western world, the dangers of various foreign creeds, the proliferation
of “anti-democratic" conspiracies, the celebration and recuperation of
canonical works, authors, and ideas. Inversely, other cultures are more and
more looked at through the perspectives of pathology and/or therapy.
However accurate and serious as scholarship, reflection, and analysis, books
appearing in London, Paris, or New York with titles like The African Condi-
tion or The Ardb Predicament or The Republic of Fear or The Latin American
Syndrome are consumed in what Kenneth Burke calls “frameworks of accep-
tance” whose conditions are quite peculiar.
On the one hand, no one in the dominant public space had paid much
attention to Iraq as society, culture, or history until August 1991; then the
outpouring of quick-fix books and television programs could hardly be
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Challenging Orthodoxy and Authority
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304 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
stopped. Typically The Republic of Fear appeared in 1989, unnoticed. Its author
later became a celebrity not because his book makes a scholarly contribu-
tion — he does not pretend otherwise — but because its obsessive and mono-
chromatic “portrait” of Iraq perfectly suits the need for dehumanized,
ahistorical, and demonological representation of a country as the embodi-
ment of an Arab Hitler. To be non-Westem (the reifying labels are them-
selves symptomatic) is ontologically thus to be unfortunate in nearly every
way, before the facts, to be at worst a maniac, and at best a follower, a lazy
consumer who, as Naipaul says somewhere, can use but could never have
invented the telephone.
On the other hand, the demystification of all cultural constructs, “ours”
as well as “theirs,” is a new fact that scholars, critics, and artists have put
before us. We cannot speak of history today without, for instance, making
room in our statements about it for Hayden White’s theses in Metahistory,
that all historical writing'*/ writing and delivers figural language and repre-
sentational tropes, be they in the codes of metonymy, metaphor, allegory, or
irony. From the work of Lukacs, Fredric Jameson, Foucault, Derrida, Sartre,
Adorno, and Benjamin — to mention only some of the obvious names — we
have a vivid apprehension of the processes of regulation and force by which
cultural hegemony reproduces itself, pressing even poetry and spirit into
administration and the commodity form.
Yet, in the main, the breach between these consequential metropolitan
theorists and either the ongoing or the historical imperial experience is truly
vast. The contributions of empire to the arts of observation, description,
disciplinary formation, and theoretical discourse have been ignored; and
with fastidious discretion, perhaps squeamishness, these new theoretical
discoveries have routinely bypassed the confluences between their findings
and the liberationist energies released by resistance cultures in the Third
World. Very rarely do we encounter direct applications from one realm to
the other, as we do when, for a lonely example, Arnold Krupat turns the
resources of post-structuralist theory on that sad panorama produced by
genocide and cultural amnesia which is beginning to be known as “native
American literature,” in order to interpret the configurations of power and
authentic experience contained in its texts. 28
We can and indeed must speculate as to why there has been a practice of
self-confinement of the libertarian theoretical capital produced in the West,
and why at the same time, in the formerly colonial world, the prospect for
a culture with strongly liberationist components has rarely seemed dimmer.
Let me give an example. Asked in 1985 by a national university in one of
the Persian Gulf States to visit there for a week, I found that my mission was
to evaluate its English program and perhaps offer some recommendations for
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Challenging Orthodoxy and Authority
3°5
its improvement. I was flabbergasted to discover that in sheer numerical
terms English attracted the largest number of young people of any depart-
ment in the university, but disheartened to find that the curriculum was
divided about equally between what was called linguistics (that is, grammar
and phonetic structure) and literature. The literary courses were, I thought,
rigorously orthodox, a pattern followed even in older and more distin-
guished Arab universities like those of Cairo and Ain Shams. Young Arabs
dutifully read Milton, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Austen, and Dickens as
they might have studied Sanskrit or medieval heraldry; no emphasis was
placed on the relationship between English and the colonial processes that
brought the language and its literature to the Arab world. 1 could not detect
much interest, except in private discussions with a few faculty members, in
the new English-language literatures of the Caribbean, Africa, or Asia. It was
an anachronistic and odd confluence of rote learning, uncritical teaching,
and (to put it kindly) haphazard results.
Still, I learned two facts that interested me as a secular intellectual and
critic. The reason for the large numbers of students taking English was given
frankly by a somewhat disaffected instructor: many of the students proposed
to end up working for airlines, or banks, in which English was the world-
wide lingua franca. This all but terminally consigned English to the level of
a technical language stripped of expressive and aesthetic characteristics and
denuded of any critical or self-conscious dimension. You learned English to
use computers, respond to orders, transmit telexes, decipher manifests, and
so forth. That was all. The other thing I discovered, to my alarm, was that
English such as it was existed in what seemed to be a seething caldron of
Islamic revivalism. Everywhere 1 turned, Islamic slogans relating to elec-
tions for the university senate were plastered all over the wall (I later found
out that the various Islamic candidates won a handsome, if not crushing,
plurality). In Egypt, in 1989, after having lectured to the English Faculty of
Cairo University for an hour about nationalism, independence, and libera-
tion as alternative cultural practices to imperialism, I was asked about “the
theocratic alternative.” I had mistakenly supposed the questioner was asking
about “the Socratic alternative” and was put right very quickly. She was a
well-spoken young woman whose head was covered by a veil; I had over-
looked her concerns in my anti-clerical and secular zeal. (I nevertheless
proceeded boldly to my attack!)
Thus using the very same English of people who aspire to literary accom-
plishments of a very high order, who allow a critical use of the language to
permit a decolonizing of the mind, as Ngugi wa Thiongo puts it, co-exists
with very different new communities in a less appealing new configuration.
In places where English was once the language of ruler and administrator,
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t>o6 freedom from domination in the future
it is a much diminished presence, either a technical language with wholly
instrumental characteristics and features, or a foreign language with various
implicit connections to the larger English-speaking world, but its presence
competes with the impressively formidable emergent reality of organized
religious fervor. Since the language of Islam is Arabic, a language with
considerable literary community and hieratic force, English has sunk to a
low, uninteresting, and attenuated level.
To gauge this new subordination in an era when in other contexts English
has acquired remarkable prominence and many interesting new communi-
ties of literary, critical, and philosophical practice, we need only briefly
recall the stunning acquiescence of the Islamic world to the prohibitions,
proscriptions, and threats pronounced by Islam’s clerical and secular author-
ities against Salman Rushdie because of his novel The Satanic Verses. I do not
mean that the entire Islamic world acquiesced, but that its official agencies
and spokespeople either blindly rejected or vehemently refused to engage
with a book which the enormous majority of people never read. (Khomeini’s
fatwa of course went a good deal further than mere rejection, but the Iranian
position was a relatively isolated one.) That it dealt with Islam in English
for what was believed to be a largely Western audience was its main offense.
But, equally important, two factors marked the English-speaking world’s
reaction to the events surrounding The Satanic Verses. One was the virtual
unanimity of cautious and timid condemnations of Islam, marshalled in a
cause that appeared to most of the metropolitan writers and intellectuals
both safe and politically correct. As for the many writers who had been
murdered, imprisoned, or banned in nations that were either American allies
(Morocco, Pakistan, Israel) or anti-American so-called “terrorist” states
(Libya, Iran, Syria), very little was said. And second, once the ritual phrases
in support of Rushdie and denunciatory of Islam were pronounced, there
seemed to be not much further interest either in the Islamic world as a whole
or in conditions of authorship there. Greater enthusiasm and energy might
have been expended in dialogue with those considerable literary and intel-
lectual figures from the Islamic world (Mahfouz, Darwish, Munif, among
others) who occasionally defended (and attacked) Rushdie in more trying
circumstances than those obtaining in Greenwich Village or Hampstead.
There are highly significant deformations within the new communities and
states that now exist alongside and partially within the world-English group
dominated by the United States, a group that includes the heterogenous
voices, various languages, and hybrid forms that give Anglophonic writing
its distinctive and still problematic identity. The emergence in recent
decades of a startlingly sharp construction called “Islam” is one such defor-
mation; others include “Communism,” “Japan,” and the “West," each of
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Challenging Orthodoxy and Authority
307
them possessing styles of polemic, batteries of discourse, and an unsettling
profusion of opportunities for dissemination. In mapping the vast domains
commanded by these gigantic caricatural essentializations, we can more
fully appreciate and interpret the modest gains made by smaller literate
groups that are bound together not by insensate polemic but by affinities,
sympathies, and compassion.
Few people during the exhilarating heyday of decolonization and early
Third World nationalism were watching or paying close attention to how a
carefully nurtured nativism in the anti-colonial ranks grew and grew to
inordinately large proportions. All those nationalist appeals to pure or au-
thentic Islam, or to Afrocentrism, nigritude, or Arabism had a strong response,
without sufficient consciousness that those ethnicities and spiritual essences
would come back to exact a very high price from their successful adherents.
Fanon was one of the few to remark on the dangers posed to a great
socio-political movement like decolonization by an untutored national con-
sciousness. Much the same could be said about the dangers of an untutored
religious consciousness. Thus the appearance of various mullahs, colonels,
and one-party regimes who pleaded national security risks and the need to
protect the foundling revolutionary state as their platform, foisted a new set
of problems onto the already considerably onerous heritage of imperialism.
It is not possible to name many states or regimes that are exempt from
active intellectual and historical participation in the new post-colonial inter-
national configuration. National security and a separatist identity are the
watchwords. Along with authorized figures — the ruler, the national heroes
and martyrs, the established religious authorities — the newly triumphant
politicians seemed to require borders and passports first of all. What had
once been the imaginative liberation of a people— Aim^ Cdsaire’s “inven-
tions of new souls” — and the audacious metaphoric charting of spiritual
territory usurped by colonial masters were quickly translated into and
accommodated by a world system of barriers, maps, frontiers, police forces,
customs and exchange controls. The finest, most elegiac commentary on this
dismal state of affairs was provided by Basil Davidson in the course of a
memorial reflection on the legacy of Amflcar Cabral. Rehearsing the ques-
tions that were never asked about what would happen after liberation,
Davidson concludes that a deepening crisis brought on neo-imperialism
and put petit bourgeois rulers firmly in command. But, he continues, this
brand of
reformist nationalism continues to dig its own grave. As the grave
deepens fewer and fewer persons in command are able to get their own
heads above the edge of it. To the tune of requiems sung in solemn
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308 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
chorus by hosts of foreign experts or would be fundi of one profession
or another, often on very comfortable (and comforting) salaries, the
funeral proceeds. The frontiers are there, the frontiers are sacred. What
else, after all, could guarantee privilege and power to ruling elites? 29
Chinua Achebe's most recent novel, Anthills of the Savannah, is a compelling
survey of this enervating and dispiriting landscape.
Davidson goes on to modify the gloom of his own description by pointing
to what he calls the people’s “own solution to this carapace accepted from
the colonial period.”
What the peoples think upon this subject is shown by their incessant
emigration across these lines on the map, as well as by their smuggling
enterprises. So that even while a “bourgeois Africa” hardens its fron-
tiers, multiplies its border controls, and thunders against the smuggling
. of persons and goods, a “peoples’ ” Africa works in quite another way. 30
The cultural correlative of that audacious but often cosdy combination of
smuggling and emigration is, of course, familiar to us; it is exemplified by
that new group of writers referred to as cosmopolitan recently in a percep-
tive analysis by Tim Brennan. 31 And crossing borders as well as the repre-
sentative deprivations and exhilarations of migration has become a major
theme in the art of the post-colonial era.
Although one may say that these writers and themes constitute a new
cultural configuration and one may point admiringly to regional aesthetic
achievements all over the world, I believe we should study the configuration
from a somewhat less attractive but, in my opinion, m,ore realistic and
political point of view. While we should rightly admire both the material
and the achievements of Rushdie’s work, say, as part of a significant forma-
tion within Anglophone literature, we should at the same time note that it
is encumbered, that aesthetically valuable work may be part of a threatening,
coercive, or deeply anti-literary, anti-intellectual formation. Before The
Satanic Verses appeared in 1988, Rushdie was already a problematic figure for
the English thanks to his essays and earlier novels; to many Indians and
Pakistanis in England and in the subcontinent, however, he was not only a
celebrated author they were proud of but also a champion of immigrants’
rights and a severe critic of nostalgic imperialists. After the farwa his status
changed drastically, and he became anathema to his former admirers. To
have provoked Islamic fundamentalism when once he had been a virtual
representative of Indian Islam — this testifies to the urgent conjunction of art
and politics, which can be explosive.
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Challenging Orthodoxy and Authority
309
“There is no document of civilization which is not at the same time a
document of barbarism,” said Walter Benjamin. Those darker connections
are where today’s interesting political and cultural conjunctures are to be
found. They affect our individual and collective critical work no less than
the hermeneutic and utopian work we feel easier about when we read,
discuss, and reflect on valuable literary texts.
Let me be more concrete. It is not only tired, harassed, and dispossessed
refugees who cross borders and try to become acculturated in new environ-
ments; it is also the whole gigantic system of the mass media that is ubiqui-
tous, slipping by most barriers and settling in nearly everywhere. I have said
that Herbert Schiller and Armand Mattelart have made us aware of the
domination by a handful of multinationals of the production and distribution
of journalistic representations; Schiller’s most recent study, Culture, Inc.,
describes how it is that all departments of culture, not just news broadcast-
ing, have been invaded by or enclosed within an ever-expanding but small
circle of privately held corporations. 32
This has a number of consequences. For one, the international media
system has in actuality done what idealistic or ideologically inspired notions
of collectivity — imagined communities — aspire to do. When, for instance,
we speak about and research something we call Commonwealth literature
or world literature in English, our efforts are at a putative level, really;
discussions of magic realism in the Caribbean and African novel, say, may
allude to or at best outline the contours of a “post-modem” or national field
that unites these works, but we know that the works and their authors and
readers are specific to, and articulated in, local circumstances, and these
circumstances are usefully kept separate when we analyze the contrasting
conditions of reception in London or New York on the one hand, the
peripheries on the other. Compared with the way the four major Western
news agencies operate, the mode by which international English-language
television journalists select, gather, and rebroadcast pictorial images from all
over the world, or the way Hollywood programs like Bonanza and I Love Lucy
work their way through even the Lebanese civil war, our critical efforts are
small and primitive, for the media are not only a fully integrated practical
network, but a very efficient mode of articulation knitting the world together.
This world system, articulating and producing culture, economics, and
political power along with their military and demographic coefficients, has
an institutionalized tendency to produce out-of-scale trans-national images
that are now reorienting international social discourse and process. Take as
a case in point the emergence of “terrorism” and “fundamentalism” as two
key terms of the 1980s. For one, you could hardly begin (in the public space
provided by international discourse) to analyze political conflicts involving
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310 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
Sunnis and Shi'is, Kurds and Iraqis, or Tamils and Sinhalese, or Sikhs and
Hindus — the list is long — without eventually having to resort to the catego-
ries and images of “terrorism” and “fundamentalism,” which derived en-
tirely from the concerns and intellectual factories in metropolitan centers
like Washington and London. They are fearful images that lack discriminate
contents or definition, but they signify moral power and approval for who-
ever uses them, moral defensiveness and criminalization for whomever they
designate. These two gigantic reductions mobilized armies as well as dis-
persed communities. Not Iran’s official reaction to Rushdie’s novel, or the
unofficial enthusiasm for him among Islamic communities in the West, or
the public and private expression of outrage in the West against the fama
is intelligible, in my opinion, without reference to the overall logic and the
minute articulations and reactions set in motion by the overbearing system
I have been trying to describe.
So it is that in the fairly open environment of communities of readers
interested, for example, in emergent post-colonial Anglophone or Franco-
phone literature, the underlying configurations are directed and controlled
not by processes of hermeneutic investigation, or by sympathetic and literate
intuition, or by informed reading, but by much coarser and more instrumen-
tal processes whose goal is to mobilize consent, to eradicate dissent, to
promote an almost literally blind patriotism. By such means the govemabil-
ity of large numbers of people is assured, numbers whose potentially disrup-
tive ambitions for democracy and expression are held down (or narcotized)
in mass societies, including, of course, Western ones.
The fear and terror induced by the overscale images of “terrorism” and
“fundamentalism” — call them the figures of an international or trans-
national imaginary made up of foreign devils — hastens the individual’s
subordination to the dominant norms of the moment. This is as true in the
new post-colonial societies as it is in the West generally and the United
States particularly. Thus to oppose the abnormality and extremism embed-
ded in terrorism and fundamentalism — my example has only a small degree
of parody — is also to uphold the moderation, rationality, executive central-
ity of a vaguely designated “Western” (or otherwise local and patriotically
assumed) ethos. The irony is that far from endowing the Western ethos with
the confidence and secure “normality” we associate with privilege and
rectitude, this dynamic imbues “us” with a righteous anger and defensive-
ness in which “others” are finally seen as enemies, bent on destroying our
civilization and way of life.
This is a mere skecch of how these patterns of coercive orthodoxy and
self-aggrandizement further strengthen the power of unthinking assent and
unchallengeable doctrine. As these are slowly perfected over time and much
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Challenging Orthodoxy and Authority
3 °
repetition, they are answered, alas, with corresponding finality by the desig-
nated enemies. Thus Muslims or Africans or Indians or Japanese, in their
idioms and from within their own threatened localities, attack the West, or
Americanization, or imperialism, with little more attention to detail; critical
differentiation, discrimination, and distinction than has been lavished on
them by the West. The same is true for Americans, to whom patriotism is
next to godliness. This is an ultimately senseless dynamic. Whatever the
“border wars” have as aims, they are impoverishing. One must join the
primordial or constituted group; or, as a subaltern Other, one must accept
inferior status; or one must fight to the death.
These border wars are an expression of essentializations — Africanizing
the African, Orientalizing the Oriental, Westernizing the Western, Ameri-
canizing the American, for an indefinite time and with no alternative (since
African, Oriental, Western essences can only remain essences) — a pattern
that has been held over from the era of classic imperialism and its systems.
What resists it? One obvious instance is identified by Immanuel Wallerstein
as what he calls anti-systemic movements, which emerged as a consequence
of historical capitalism. 3 ’ There have been enough cases of these latecoming
movements in recent times to hearten even the most intransigent pessimist:
the democracy movements on all sides of the socialist divide, the Palestinian
intifada, various social, ecological, and cultural movements throughout
North and South America, the women’s movement. Yet it is difficult for
these movements to be interested in the world beyond their own borders, or
to have the capacity and freedom to generalize about it. If you are part of
a Philippine, or Palestinian, or Brazilian oppositional movement, you must
deal with the tactical and logistical requirements of the daily struggle. Yet
I do think that efforts of this kind are developing, if not a general theory,
then a common discursive readiness or, to put it territorially, an under-
lying world map. Perhaps we may start to speak of this somewhat elusive
oppositional mood, and its emerging strategies, as an internationalist
counter-articulation.
What new or newer kind of intellectual and cultural politics does this
internationalism call for? 3 '* What important transformations and transfigura-
tions should there be in our traditionally and Eurocentrically defined ideas
of the writer, the intellectual, the critic? English and French are world
languages, and the logics of borders and warring essences are totalizing, so
we should begin by acknowledging that the map of the world has no divinely
or dogmatically sanctioned spaces, essences, or privileges. However, we may
speak of secular space, and of humanly constructed and interdependent
histories that are fundamentally knowable, although not through grand
theory or systematic totalization. Throughout this book, I have been saying
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312 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
that human experience is finely textured, dense, and accessible enough not
to need extra-historical or extra-worldly agencies to illuminate or explain
it. I am talking about a way of regarding our world as amenable to investiga-
tion and interrogation without magic keys, special jargons and instruments,
curtained-ofF practices.
We need a different and innovative paradigm for humanistic research.
Scholars can be frankly engaged in the politics and interests of the present —
with open eyes, rigorous analytical energy, and the decently social values of
those who are concerned with the survival neither of a disciplinary fiefdom
or guild nor of a manipulative identity like “India” or “America,” but with
the improvement and non-coercive enhancement of life in a community
struggling to exist among other communities. One must not minimize the
inventive excavations required in this work. One is not looking for uniquely
original essences, either to restore them or to set them in a place of unim-
peachable honor. The study of Indian history is viewed by Subaltern Studies,
for example, as an ongoing contest between classes and their disputed
epistemologies; similarly, “Englishness” for the contributors to the three-
volume Patriotism edited by Raphael Samuel is not given priority before
history, any more than “Attic civilization” in Bernal’s Black Atbena is made
simply to serve as an ahistorical model of a superior civilization.
The idea behind these works is that orthodox, authoritatively national
and institutional versions of history tend principally to freeze provisional
and highly contestable versions of history into official identities. Thus the
official version of British history embedded, say, in the durbars arranged for
Queen Victoria's Indian Viceroy in 1876 pretends that British rule had an
almost mythical longevity over India; traditions of Indian service, obeisance,
and subordination are implicated in these ceremonies so as to create the
image of an entire continent’s trans-historical identity pressed into compli-
ance before the image of a Britain whose own constructed identity is that
it has ruled and must always rule both the waves and India. 35 Whereas
these official versions of history try to do this for identitarian authority (to
use Adomian terms) — the caliphate, the state, the orthodox clerisy, the
Establishment — the disenchantments, the disputatious and systematically
skeptical investigations in the innovative work I have cited submit
these composite, hybrid identities to a negative dialectic which dissolves
them into variously constructed components. What matters a great deal
more than the stable identity kept current in official discourse is the con-
testatory force of an interpretative method whose material is the disparate,
but intertwined and interdependent, and above all overlapping streams of
historical experience.
A superbly audacious instance of this force can be found in interpretations
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Challenging Orthodoxy and Authority
3>3
of the Arabic literary and cultural tradition ventured by today’s leading Arab
poet, Adonis, the pen name of Ali Ahmed Said. Since the three volumes of
Al-Thabit via al-Mutahawwil were published between 1974 and 1978, he has
almost single-handedly been challenging the persistence of what he regards
as the ossified, tradition-bound Arab-Islamic heritage, stuck not only in the
past but in rigid and authoritarian rereadings of that past. The purpose of
these rereadings, he has said, is to keep the Arabs from truly encountering
modernity (al-hadatba). In his book on Arab poetics Adonis associates literal,
hard-bound readings of great Arab poetry with the ruler, whereas an imagi-
native reading reveals that at the heart of the classical tradition — even
including the Koran — a subversive and dissenting strain counters the appar-
ent orthodoxy proclaimed by the temporal authorities. He shows how the
rule of law in Arab society separates power from critique and tradition from
innovation, thereby confining history to an exhausting code of endlessly
reiterated precedents. To this system he opposes the dissolving powers of
critical modernity:
Those in power designated everyone who did not think according to
the culture of the caliphate as “the people of innovation” (ahl al-ihdath),
excluding them with this indictment of heresy from their Islamic affil-
iation. This explains how the terms ibdath (modernity) and muhdath
(modern, new), used to characterize the poetry which violated the
ancient poetic principles, came originally from the religious lexicon.
Consequently we can see that the modem in poetry appeared to the
ruling establishment as a political or intellectual attack on the culture
of the regime and a rejection of the idealized standards of the ancient,
and how, therefore, in Arab life the poetic has always been mixed up
with the political and religious, and indeed continues to be so. 36
Although the work of Adonis and his associates in the journal Maviaqif is
scarcely known outside the Arab world, it can be seen as part of a much
larger international configuration that includes the Field Day writers in
Ireland, the Subaltern Studies group in India, most of the dissenting writers
in Eastern Europe, and many Caribbean intellectuals and artists whose
heritage is traced to C.L.R. James (Wilson Harris, George Lamming, Eric
Williams, Derek Walcott, Edward Braithwaite, the early V. S. Naipaul). For
all these movements and individuals, the cliches and patriotic idealizations
of official history can be dissolved, along with their legacy of intellectual
bondage and defensive recriminations. As Seamus Deane put it for the Irish
case, “The myth of Irishness, the notion of Irish unreality, the notions
surrounding Irish eloquence, are all political themes upon which the litera-
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314 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
ture has battened to an extreme degree since the nineteenth century when
the idea of national character was invented.” 37 The job facing the cultural
intellectual is therefore not to accept the politics of identity as given, but to
show how all representations are constructed, for what purpose, by whom,
and with what components.
This is far from easy. An alarming defensiveness has crept into America’s
official image of itself, especially in its representations of the national past.
Every society and official tradition defends itself against interferences with
its sanctioned narratives; over time these acquire an almost theological
status, with founding heroes, cherished ideas and values, national allegories
having an inestimable effect in cultural and political life. Two of these
elements — America as a pioneering society and American political life as a
direct reflection of democratic practices — have come under recent scrutiny,
with a resulting furor that has been quite remarkable. In both cases there has
been some but by no means enough serious and secular intellectual effort by
intellectuals themselves to accept critical views; rather like the media an-
chorpersons who internalize the norms of power, they have internalized
norms of official self-identity.
Consider “America as West,” an exhibition mounted at the National
Gallery of American Art in 1991; the gallery is part of the Smithsonian
Institution, maintained in part by the federal government. According to the
exhibit, the conquest of the West and its subsequent incorporation into the
United States had been transformed into a heroic meliorist narrative that
disguised, romanticized, or simply eliminated the many-sided truth about
the actual process of conquest, as well as the destruction of both native
Americans and the environment Images of the Indian in nineteenth-century
American paintings, for example — noble, proud, reflective — were set
against a running text on the same wall that described the native American’s
degradations at the hands of the white man. Such “deconstructions” as this
stirred the ire of members of Congress, whether they had seen the exhibition
or not; they found its unpatriotic or un-American slant unacceptable, espe-
cially for a federal institution, to exhibit Professors, pundits, and journalists
attacked what they considered a malign slur on the United States’ “unique-
ness,” which, in the words of a Washington Post writer, is the “hope and
optimism of its founding, the promise of its bounty, and the persevering
efforts of its government.” 38 There were only a few exceptions to this view,
for example Robert Hughes, who wrote in Time (May 31, 1991) about the art
exhibited as “a foundation myth in paint and stone.”
That a strange mixture of invention, history, and self-aggrandizement had
gone into this national origin story as it does into all of them was ruled by
a semi-official consensus to be not fit for America. Paradoxically, the United
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Challenging Orthodoxy and Authority
VS
States, as an immigrant society composed of many cultures, has a public
discourse more policed, more anxious to depict the country as free from
taint, more unified around one iron-clad major narrative of innocent tri-
umph. This effort to keep things simple and good disaffiliates the country
from its relationship with other societies and peoples, thereby reinforcing its
remoteness and insularity.
Another extraordinary case was the controversy surrounding Oliver
Stone’s seriously flawed film JFK, released in late 1991, the premise of which
was that Kennedy’s assassination had been planned in a conspiracy of Amer-
icans who opposed his desire to end the war in Vietnam, Granted that the
film was uneven and confused, and granted that Stone’s main reason for
making it may have been only commercial, why did so many unofficial
agencies of cultural authority — newspapers of record, establishment histori-
ans, politicians — think it important to attack the film? It takes very little for
a non-American to accept as a starting point that most, if not all, political
assassinations are conspiracies, because that is the way the world is. But a
chorus of American sages takes acres of print to deny that conspiracies occur
in America, since “we” represent a new, and better, and more innocent
world. At the same time there is plentiful evidence of official American
conspiracies and assassination attempts against the sanctioned “foreign
devils” (Castro, Qaddafi, Saddam Hussein, and so on). The connections are
not made, and the reminders remain unpronounced.
A set of major corollaries derives from this. If the chief, most official,
forceful, and coercive identity is of a state with its borders, customs, ruling
parties and authorities, official narratives and images, and if intellectuals
consider that that identity is in need of constant criticism and analysis, then
it must follow that other similarly. constructed identities need similar inves-
tigation and interrogation. The education of those of us who are interested
in literature and the study of culture has for the most part been organized
under various rubrics — the creative writer, the self-sufficient and autono-
mous work, the national literature, the separate genres — that have acquired
almost fetishistic presence. Now it would be insane to argue that individual
writers and works do not exist, that French, Japanese, and Arabic are not
separate things, or that Milton, Tagore, and Alejo Carpentier are only
trivially different variations on the same theme. Neither am I saying that an
essay about Great Expectations and Dickens’s actual novel Great Expectations
are the same thing. But I am saying that “identity” does not necessarily
imply ontologically given and eternally determined stability, or uniqueness,
or irreducible character, or privileged status as something total and complete
in and of itself. I would prefer to interpret a novel as the choice of one mode
of writing from among many others, and the activity of writing as one social
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31 6 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
mode among several, and the category of literature as something created to
serve various worldly aims, including and perhaps even mainly aesthetic
ones. Thus the focus in the destabilizing and investigative attitudes of those
whose work actively opposes states and borders is on how a work of art, for
instance, begins as a work, begins from a political, social, cultural situation,
begins to do certain things and not others.
The modern history of literary study has been bound up with the devel-
opment of cultural nationalism, whose aim was first to distinguish the na-
tional canon, then to maintain its eminence, authority, and aesthetic
autonomy. Even in discussions concerning culture in general that seemed to
rise above national differences in deference to a universal sphere, hierarchies
and ethnic preferences (as between European and non-European) were held
to. This is as true of Matthew Arnold as it is of twentieth-century cultural
and philological critics whom I revere — Auerbach, Adorno, Spitzer, Black-
mur. For them all, their culture was in a sense the only culture. The threats
against it were largely internal — for the modem ones they were fascism and
communism— and what they upheld was European bourgeois humanism.
Neither the ethos nor the rigorous training required to install that bildung
nor the extraordinary discipline it demanded has survived, although occa-
sionally one hears the accents of admiration and retrospective discipleship;
but no critical work done now resembles work on the order of Mimesis.
Instead of European bourgeois humanism, the basic premise now is provided
by a residue of nationalism, with its various derivative authorities, in alliance
with a professionalism that divides material into fields, subdivisions, special-
ties, accreditations, and the like. The surviving doctrine of aesthetic auton-
omy has dwindled into a formalism associated with one or another
professional method — structuralism, deconstruction, etc.
A look at some of the new academic fields that have been created since
World War Two, and especially as a result of non-European nationalist
struggles, reveals a different topography and a different set of imperatives.
On the one hand, most students and teachers of non-European literatures
today must from the outset take account of the politics of what they study;
one cannot postpone discussions of slavery, colonialism, racism in any seri-
ous investigations of modem Indian, African, Latin and North American,
Arabic, Caribbean, and Commonwealth literature. Nor is it intellectually
responsible to discuss them without referring to their embattled circum-
stances either in post-colonial societies or as marginalized and/or subju-
gated subjects confined to secondary spots in the curricula in metropolitan
centers. Nor can one hide in positivism or empiricism and offhandedly
“require” the weapons of theory. On the other hand, it is a mistake to argue
that the “other” non-European literatures, those with more obviously
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3*7
worldly affiliations to power and politics, can be studied “respectably,” as if
they were in actuality as high, autonomous, aesthetically independent, and
satisfying as Western literatures have been made to be. The notion of black
skin in a white mask is no more serviceable and dignified in literary study
than it is in politics. Emulation and mimicry do not get one very far.
Contamination is the wrong word to use here, but some notion of litera-
ture and indeed all culture as hybrid (in Homi Bhabha’s complex sense of
that word } 39 and encumbered, or entangled and overlapping with what used
to be regarded as extraneous elements — this strikes me as the essential idea
for the revolutionary realities today, in which the contests of the secular
world so provocatively inform the texts we both read and write. We can no
longer afford conceptions of history that stress linear development or
Hegelian transcendence, any more than we can accept geographical or
territorial assumptions that assign centrality to the Atlantic world and con-
genital and even delinquent peripherality to non-Western regions. If
configurations like “Anglophone literature” or “world literarure” are to have
any meaning at all, it is therefore because by their existence and actuality
today they testify to the contests and continuing struggles by virtue of which
they emerged both as texts and as historical experiences , and because they
challenge so vigorously the nationalist basis for the composition and study
of literature, and the lofty independence and indifference with which it had
been customary to regard the metropolitan Western literatures.
Once we accept the actual configuration of literary experiences overlap-
ping with one another and interdependent, despite national boundaries and
coercively legislated national autonomies, history and geography are trans-
figured in new maps, in new and far less stable entities, in new types of
connections. Exile, far from being the fate of nearly forgotten unfortunates
who are dispossessed and expatriated, becomes something closer to a norm,
an experience of crossing boundaries and charting new territories in defiance
of the classic canonic enclosures, however much its loss and sadness should
be acknowledged and registered. Newly changed models and types jostle
against the older ones. The reader and writer of literature — which itself
loses its perdurable forms and accepts the testimonials, revisions, notations
of the post-colonial experience, including underground life, slave narratives,
women’s literature, and prison — no longer need to be tied to an image of the
poet or scholar in isolation, secure, stable, national in identity, class, gender,
or profession, but can think and experience with Genet in Palestine or
Algeria, with Tayeb Salih as a Black man in London, with Jamaica Kincaid
in the white world, with Rushdie in India and Britain, and so on.
We must expand the horizons against which the questions of how and what
to read and write are both posed and answered. To paraphrase a remark
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318 freedom from domination in the future
made by Erich Auerbach in one of his last essays, our philological home is
the world, and not the nation or even the individual writer. This means that
we professional students of literature must take account of a number of
astringent issues here, at the risk of both unpopularity and accusations of
megalomania. For in an age of the mass media and what I have called the
manufacture of consent, it is Panglossian to imagine that the careful reading
of a few works of art considered humanistically, professionally, or aestheti-
cally significant is anything but a private activity with only slender public
consequences. Texts are protean things; they are tied to circumstances and
to politics large and small, and these require attention and criticism. No one
can take stock of everything, of course, just as no one theory can explain or
account for the connections among texts and societies. But reading and
writing texts are never neutral activities: there are interests, powers, pas-
sions, pleasures entailed no matter how aesthetic or entertaining the work.
Media, political economy, mass institutions — in fine, the tracings of secular
power and the influence of the state — are part of what we call literature. And
just as it is true that we cannot read literature by men without also reading
literature by women — so transfigured has been the shape of literature — it is
also true that we cannot deal with the literature of the peripheries without
also attending to the literature of the metropolitan centers.
Instead of the partial analysis offered by the various national or systemati-
cally theoretical schools, I have been proposing the contrapuntal lines of a
global analysis, in which texts and worldly institutions are seen working
together, in which Dickens and Thackeray as London authors are read also
as writers whose historical experience is informed by the colonial enter-
prises in India and Australia of which they were so aware, and in which the
literature of one commonwealth is involved in the literatures of others.
Separatist or nativist enterprises strike me as exhausted; the ecology of
literature's new and expanded meaning cannot be attached to only one
essence or to the discrete idea of one thing. But this global, contrapuntal
analysis should be modelled not (as earlier notions of comparative literature
were) on a symphony but rather on an atonal ensemble; we must take into
account all sorts of spatial or geographical and rhetorical practices — inflec-
tions, limits, constraints, intrusions, inclusions, prohibitions — all of them
tending to elucidate a complex and uneven topography. A gifted critic’s
intuitive synthesis, of the type volunteered by hermeneutic or philological
interpretation (whose prototype is Dilthey), is still of value, but strikes me
as the poignant reminder of a serener time than ours.
This brings us once again to the question of politics. No country is exempt
from the debate about what is to be read, taught, or written. I have often
envied American theorists for whom radical skepticism or deferential rever-
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3*9
ence of the status quo are real alternatives. I do not feel them as such,
perhaps because my owji history and situation do not allow such luxury,
detachment, or satisfaction. Yet 1 do believe that some literature is actually
good, and that some is bad, and 1 remain as conservative as anyone when it
comes to, if not the redemptive value of reading a classic rather than staring
at a television screen, then the potential enhancement of one’s sensibility
and consciousness by doing so, by the exercise of one’s mind. 1 suppose the
issue reduces itself to what our humdrum and pedestrian daily work, what
we do as readers and writers, is all about, when on the one hand professional-
ism and patriotism will not serve and on the other waiting for apocalyptic
change will not either. I keep coming back — simplistically and idealisti-
cally — to the notion of opposing and alleviating coercive domination, trans-
forming the present by trying rationally and analytically to lift some of its
burdens, situating the works of various literatures with reference to one
another and to their historical modes of being. What I am saying is that in
the configurations and by virtue of the transfigurations taking place around
us, readers and writers are now in fact secular intellectuals with the archival,
expressive, elaborative, and moral responsibilities of that role.
For American intellectuals considerably more is at stake. We are formed
by our country, and it has an enormous global presence. There is a serious
issue posed by the opposition of, say, Paul Kennedy’s work — arguing that all
great empires decline because they overextend themselves 40 — and Joseph
Nye’s, in whose new preface to Bound to Lead the American imperial claim
to be number one, especially after the Gulf War, is reasserted. The evidence
is in Kennedy’s favor, but Nye is too intelligent not to understand that “the
problem for United States power in the twenty-first century will not be new
challenges for hegemony but the new challenges of transnational interde-
pendence.” 41 Yet he concludes that “the United States remains the largest
and richest power with the greatest capacity to shape the future. And in a
democracy, the choices are the people’s.” 42 The question is, though, do “the
people” have direct access to power? Or are the presentations of that power
so organized and culturally processed as to require a different analysis?
To speak of relentless commodification and specialization in this world,
is, I think, to begin to formulate the analysis, especially since the American
cult of expertise and professionalism, which has hegemony in cultural dis-
course, and the hypertrophy of vision and will are so advanced. Rarely
before in human history has there been so massive an intervention of force
and ideas from one culture to another as there is today from America to the
rest of the world (Nye is right about this), and I shall return to the issue a
little later. Yet it is also true that in the main we have rarely been so
fragmented, so sharply reduced, and so completely diminished in our sense
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320 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
of what our true (as opposed to asserted) cultural identity is. The fantastic
explosion of specialized and separatist knowledge is partly to blame: Afro-
centrism, Eurocentrism, Occidentalism, feminism, Marxism, deconstruc-
tionism, etc. The schools disable and disempower what was empowering and
interesting about the original insights. And this in turn has cleared the space
for a sanctioned rhetoric of national cultural purpose, well-embodied in
such documents as the Rockefeller Foundation-commissioned study The
Humanities in American Life , 43 or, more recently and more politically, the
various expostulations of the former secretary of education (and former head
of the National Endowment for the Humanities) William Bennett, speaking
(in his “To Reclaim a Heritage”) not simply as a cabinet officer in the
Reagan administration, but as self-designated spokesman for the West, a sort
of Head of the Free World. He was joined by Allan Bloom and his followers,
intellectuals who consider the appearance in the academic world of women,
African-Americans, gays, and Native Americans, all of them speaking with
genuine multiculturalism and new knowledge, as a barbaric threat to “West-
ern Civilization.”
What do these “state of the culture” screeds tell us? Simply that the
humanities are important, central, traditional, inspiring. Bloom wants us to
read only a handful of Greek and Enlightenment philosophers in keeping
with his theory about higher education in the United States being for “the
elite.” Bennett goes as far as saying that we can “have” the humanities by
“reclaiming” our traditions — the collective pronouns and the proprietary
accents are important — through twenty or so major texts. If every American
student were required to read Homer, Shakespeare, the Bible, and Jefferson,
then we would achieve a full sense of national purpose. Underlying these
epigonal replications of Matthew Arnold’s exhortations to the significance of
culture is the social authority of patriotism, the fortifications of identity
brought to us by “our” culture, whereby we can confront the world defiantly
and self-confidently; in Francis Fukuyama’s triumphalist proclamation, “we”
Americans can see ourselves as realizing the end of history.
This is an extremely drastic delimitation of what we have learned about
culture — its productivity, its diversity of components, its critical and often
contradictory energies, its radically antithetical characteristics, and above all
its rich worldliness and complicity with imperial conquest and liberation.
We are told that cultural or humanistic study is the recovery of the Judeo-
Christian or Western heritage, free from native American culture (which the
Judeo-Christian tradition in its early American embodiments set about to
massacre) and from that tradition’s adventures in the non-Western world.
Yet the multicultural disciplines have in fact found a hospitable haven in
the contemporary American academy, and this is a historical fact of extraor-
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Challenging Orthodoxy and Authority
321
dinary magnitude. To a great degree, William Bennett has had this as his
target, as do Dinesh D’Souza, Roger Kimball, and Alvin Keman; whereas we
would have thought that it has always been a legitimate conception of the
modern university’s secular mission (as described by Alvin Gouldner) to be a
place where multiplicity and contradiction co-exist with established dogma
and canonical doctrine. This is now refuted by a new conservative dog-
matism claiming “political correctness” as its enemy. The neo-conservative
supposition is that in admitting Marxism, structuralism, feminism, and
Third World studies into the curriculum (and before that an entire genera-
tion of refugee scholars), the American university sabotaged the basis of its
supposed authority and is now ruled by a Blanquist cabal of intolerant
ideologues who “control” it.
The irony is that it has been the university’s practice to admit the
subversions of cultural theory in order to some degree to neutralize them by
fixing them in the status of academic subspecialties. So now we have the
curious spectacle of teachers teaching theories that have been completely
displaced — wrenched is the better word — from their contexts; I have else-
where called this phenomenon “travelling theory.”'' 4 In various academic
departments — among them literature, philosophy, and history — theory is
taught so as to make the student believe that he or she can become a Marxist,
a feminist, an Afrocentrist, or a deconstructionist with about the same effort
and commitment required in choosing items from a menu. Over and above
that trivialization is a steadily more powerful cult of professional expertise,
whose main ideological burden stipulates that social, political, and class-
based commitments should be subsumed under the professional disciplines,
so that if you are a professional scholar of literature or critic of culture, all
your affiliations with the real world are subordinate to your professing in
those fields. Similarly, you are responsible not so much to an audience in
your community or society, as to and for your corporate guild of fellow
experts, your department of specialization, your discipline. In the same spirit
and by the same law of the division of labor, those whose job is “foreign
affairs” or “Slavic or Middle Eastern area studies” attend to those matters
and keep out of yours. Thus your ability to sell, market, promote, and
package your expertise — from university to university, from publisher to
publisher, from market to market — is protected, its value maintained, your
competence enhanced. Robert McCaughey has written an interesting study
of how this process works in international affairs; the title tells the whole
story: International Studies and Academic Enterprise: A Chapter in the Enclosure of
American Learning . 45
I am not discussing here aU cultural practices in contemporary American
society — -very far from it. But I am describing a particularly influential
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321 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
formation that has a decisive bearing on the relationship, inherited histori-
cally by the United States from Europe in the twentieth century, between
culture and imperialism. Expertise in foreign policy has never been more
profitable than it is today — hence never as sequestered from public tamper-
ing. So on the one hand we have the co-optations of foreign-area expertise
by the academy (only experts on India can talk about India, only Africanists
about Africa), and on the other reaffirmations of these co-optations by both
the media and the government. These rather slow and silent processes are
put in startling evidence, revealed impressively and suddenly, during peri-
ods of foreign crisis for the United States and its interests — for example, the
Iranian hostage crisis, the shooting down of Korean Airlines flight 007, the
Acbille Lauro affair, the Libyan, Panamanian, and Iraqi wars. Then, as if by
an open sesame as unafguably obeyed as it is planned to the last detail,
public awareness is saturated with media analysis and stupendous coverage.
Thus experience is emasculated. Adorno says:
The total obliteration of the war by information, propaganda, commen-
taries, with cameramen in the first tanks and war reporters dying heroic
deaths, the mishmash of an enlightened manipulation of public opinion
and oblivious activity: all this is another expression for the withering
of experience, the vacuum between men and their fate, in which their
real fate lies. It is as if the reified, hardened plaster-cast of events takes
the place of events themselves: Men are reduced to walk-on parts in a
monster documentary-film. 46
It would be irresponsible to dismiss the effects that American electronic
media coverage of the non-Westem world — and the consequent displace-
ments in print culture — has on American attitudes to, and foreign policy
toward, that world. I argued the case in 1981 47 (and it is more true today) that
limited public effect on the media’s performance coupled with an almost
perfect correspondence between prevailing government policy and the ide-
ology ruling news presentation and selection (an agenda set by certified
experts hand in hand with media managers) keeps the United States’ impe-
rial perspective toward the non-Westem world consistent. As a result
United States policy has been supported by a dominant culture that does not
oppose its main tenets: support for dictatorial and unpopular regimes, for a
scale of violence out of all proportion to the violence of native insurgency
against American allies, for a steady hostility to the legitimacy of native
nationalism.
The concurrence between such notions and the world-view promulgated
by the media is quite exact. The history of other cultures is non-existent
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Challenging Orthodoxy and Authority
until it erupts in confrontation with the United States; most of what counts
about foreign societies is compressed into thirty-second items, “sound-
bites,” and into the question of whether they are pro- or anti-America,
freedom, capitalism, democracy. Most Americans today know and discuss
sports with greater skill than they do their own government’s behavior in
Africa, Indochina, or Latin America; a recent poll showed that 89 percent of
high school juniors believed that Toronto was in Italy. As framed by the
media, the choice facing professional interpreters of, or experts on, “other”
peoples is to tell the public whether what is happening is “good” for America
or not — as if what is “good” could be articulated in fifteen-second sound
bites — and then to recommend a policy for action. Every commentator or
expert a potential secretary of state for a few minutes.
The internalization of norms used in cultural discourse, the rules to
follow when statements are made, the “history” that is made official as
opposed to the history that is not: all these of course are ways to regulate
public discussion in all societies. The difference here is that the epic scale
of United States global power and the corresponding power of the national
domestic consensus created by the electronic media have no precedents.
Never has there been a consensus so difficult to oppose nor so easy and
logical to capitulate to unconsciously. Conrad saw Kurtz as a European in
the African jungle and Gould as an enlightened Westerner in the South
American mountains, capable of both civilizing and obliterating the natives;
the same power, on a world scale, is true of the United States today, despite
its declining economic power.
My analysis would be incomplete were I not to mention another impor-
tant element. In speaking of control and consensus, I have used the word
“hegemony” purposely, despite Nye’s disclaimer that the United States does
not now aim for it. It is not a question of a directly imposed regime of
conformity in the correspondence between contemporary United States
cultural discourse and United States policy in the subordinate, non-Westem
world. Rather, it is a system of pressures and constraints by which the whole
cultural corpus retains its essentially imperial identity and its direction. This
is why it is accurate to say that a mainstream culture has a certain regularity,
integrity, or predictability over time. Another way of putting this is to say
that one can recognize new patterns of dominance, to borrow from Fredric
Jameson’s description of post-modernism, 48 in contemporary culture. Jame-
son's argument is yoked to his description of consumer culture, whose
central features are a new relationship with the past based on pastiche and
nostalgia, a new and eclectic randomness in the cultural artefact, a reorgani-
zation of space, and characteristics of multinational capital. To this we must
add the culture’s phenomenally incorporative capacity, which makes it
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324 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
possible for anyone in fact to say anything at all, but everything is processed
either toward the dominant mainstream or out to the margins.
Marginalization in American culture means a kind of unimportant pro-
vinciality. It means the inconsequence associated with what is not major, not
central, not powerful — in short, it means association with what are consid-
ered euphemistically as “alternative” modes, alternative states, peoples,
cultures, alternative theaters, presses, newspapers, artists, scholars, and
styles, which may later become central or at least fashionable. The new
images of centrality — directly connected with what C. Wright Mills called
the power elite — supplant the slower, reflective, less immediate and rapid
processes of print culture, with its encoding of the attendant and recalcitrant
categories of historical class, inherited property, and traditional privilege.
The executive presence is central in American culture today: the president,
the television commentator, the corporate official, celebrity. Centrality is
identity, what is powerful, important, and ours. Centrality maintains balance
between extremes; it endows ideas with the balances of moderation, ratio-
nality, pragmatism; it holds the middle together.
And centrality gives rise to semi-official narratives that authorize and
provoke certain sequences of cause and effect, while at the same time
preventing counter-narratives from emerging. The commonest sequence is
the old one that America, a force for good in the world, regularly comes up
against obstacles posed by foreign conspiracies, ontologically mischievous
and “against” America. Thus American aid to Vietnam and Iran was cor-
rupted by communists on the one hand and terrorist fundamentalists on the
other, leading to humiliation and bitter disappointment. Conversely, during
the Cold War, the valiant Afghanistan! moujahidin (freedom fighters), Po-
land’s Solidarity movement, Nicaraguan “contras,” Angolan rebels, Salva-
doran regulars — all of whom “we” support — left to our proper devices
would be victorious with “our” help, but the meddlesome efforts of liberals
at home and disinformation experts abroad reduced our ability to help. Until
the Gulf War, when “we” finally rid ourselves of the “Vietnam syndrome.”
These subliminally available capsule histories are refracted superbly in
the novels of E. L. Doctorow, Don DeLillo, and Robert Stone, and merci-
lessly analyzed by journalists like Alexander Cockburn, Christopher Hitch-
ens, Seymour Hersh, and in the tireless work of Noam Chomsky. But these
official narratives still have the power to interdict, marginalize, and criminal-
ize alternative versions of the same history — in Vietnam, Iran, the Middle
East, Africa, Central America, Eastern Europe. A simple empirical demon-
stration of what I mean is what happens when you are given the opportunity
to express a more complex, less sequential history: in fact you are compelled
to retell the “facts” in such a way as to be inventing a language from scratch,
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Challenging Orthodoxy and Authority
V-S
as was the case with the Gulf War examples 1 discussed earlier. The most
difficult thing to say during the Gulf War was that foreign societies in history
and at present may not have assented to the imposition of Western political
and military power, not because there was anything inherently evil about
that power but because they felt it to be alien. To venture so apparently
uncontroversial a truth about how all cultures in fact behave was nothing
less than an act of delinquency; the opportunity offered you to say something
in the name of pluralism and fairness was sharply restricted to inconsequen-
tial bursts of facts, stamped as either extreme or irrelevant. With no accept-
able narrative to rely on, with no sustained permission to narrate, you feel
crowded out and silenced.
To complete this rather bleak picture, let me add a few final observations
about the Third World. Obviously we cannot discuss the non-Westem
world as disjunct from developments in the West. The ravages of colonial
wars, the protracted conflicts between insurgent nationalism and anomalous
imperialist control, the disputatious new fundamentalist and nativist move-
ments nourished by despair and anger, the extension of the world system
over the developing world — these circumstances are directly connected to
actualities in the West. On the one hand, as Eqbal Ahmad says in the best
account of these circumstances we have, the peasant and pre-capitalist
classes that predominated during the era of classical colonialism have dis-
persed in the new states into new, often abruptly urbanized and restless
classes tied to the absorptive economic and political power of the metropoli-
tan West. In Pakistan and Egypt, for example, the contentious fundamental-
ists are led not by peasant or working-class intellectuals but by
Western-educated engineers, doctors, lawyers. Ruling minorities emerge
with the new deformations in the new structures of power. 49 These patholo-
gies, and the disenchantment with authority they have caused, run the
gamut from the neo-fascist to the dynastic-oligarchic, with only a few states
retaining a functioning parliamentary and democratic system. On the other
hand, the crisis of the Third World does present challenges that suggest
considerable scope for what Ahmad calls “a logic of daring.” 50 In having to
give up traditional beliefs, the newly independent states recognize the
relativism of, and possibilities inherent in, all societies, systems of belief,
cultural practices. The experience of achieving independence imparts “opti-
mism — the emergence and diffusion of a feeling of hope and power, of the
belief that what exists does not have to exist, that people can improve their
lot if they try [and] . . . rationalism . . . the spread of the presumption that
planning, organization and the use of scientific knowledge will resolve social
problems.” 51
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5 16 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
or all its apparent power, this new overall pattern of domination,
developed during an era of mass societies commanded at the top by a
powerfully centralizing culture and a complex incorporative economy, is
unstable. As the remarkable French urban sociologist Paul Virilio has said,
it is a polity based on speed, instant communication, distant reach, constant
emergency, insecurity induced by mounting crises, some of which lead to
war. In such circumstances the rapid occupation of real as well as public
space — colonization — becomes the central militaristic prerogative of the
modem state, as the United States showed when it dispatched a huge army
► to the Arabian Gulf, and commandeered the media to help carry out the
operation. As against that, Virilio suggests that the modernist project of
liberating language/speech (la liberation de la parole ) has a parallel in the
liberation of critical spaces — hospitals, universities, theaters, factories,
churches, empty buildings; in both, the fundamental transgressive act is to
inhabit the normally uninhabited.” As examples, Virilio cites the cases of
people whose current status is the consequence either of decolonization
(migrant workers, refugees, Gastarbeiter) or of major demographic and politi-
cal shifts (Blacks, immigrants, urban squatters, students, popular insurrec-
tions, etc.). These constitute a real alternative to the authority of the state.
If the 1960s are now remembered as a decade of European and American
mass demonstrations (the university and anti-war uprisings chief among
them), the 1980s must surely ,be the decade of mass uprisings outside the
Western metropolis. Iran, the Philippines, Argentina, Korea, Pakistan, Alge-
ria, China, South Africa, virtually all of Eastern Europe, the Israeli-occupied
territories of Palestine: these are some of the most impressive crowd-
activated sites, each of them crammed with largely unarmed civilian popula-
tions, well past the point of enduring the imposed deprivations, tyranny, and
inflexibility of governments that had ruled them for too long. Most memora-
ble are, on the one hand, the resourcefulness and the startling symbolism of
the protests themselves (the stone-throwing Palestinian youths, for example,
or the swaying dancing South African groups, or the wall-traversing East
Germans) and, on the other, the offensive brutality or collapse and ignomini-
ous departure of the governments.
Allowing for great differences in ideology, these mass protests have all
( HI )
Movements and Migrations
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Movements and Migrations
3 2 7
challenged something very basic to every art and theory of government, the
principle of confinement. To be governed people must be counted, taxed,
educated, and of course ruled in regulated places (house, school, hospital,
work site), whose ultimate extension is represented at its most simple and
severe by the prison or mental hospital, as Michel Foucault argued. True,
there was a camivalesque aspect to the milling crowds in Gaza or in Wen-
ceslas and Tiananmen squares, but the consequences of sustained mass
unconfinement and unsealed existence were only a little less dramatic (and
dispiriting) in the 1980s than before. The unresolved plight of the Palestini-
ans speaks directly of an undomesticated cause and a rebellious people
paying a very heavy price for their resistance. And there are other examples:
refugees and “boat people,” those unresting and vulnerable itinerants; the
starving populations of the Southern Hemisphere; the destitute but insistent
homeless who, like so many Bartlebys, shadow the Christmas shoppers in
Western cities; the undocumented immigrants and exploited “guest work-
ers” who provide cheap and usually seasonal labor. Between the extremes
of discontented, challenging urban mobs and the floods of semi-forgonen,
uncared-for people, the world’s secular and religious authorities have sought
new, or renewed, modes of governance.
None has seemed so easily available, so conveniently attractive as appeals
to tradition, national or religious identity, patriotism. And because these
appeals are amplified and disseminated by a perfected media system ad-
dressing mass cultures, they have been strikingly, not to say frighteningly
effective. When in the spring of 1986 the Reagan administration decided to
deal “terrorism” a blow, the raid on Libya was timed to occur exactly as
prime-time national evening news began. “America strikes back” was an-
swered resoundingly throughout the Muslim world with bloodcurdling ap-
peals to “Islam,” which in turn provoked an avalanche of images, writings,
and postures in the “West” underscoring the value of “our” Judeo-Christian
(Western, liberal, democratic) heritage and the nefariousness, evil, cruelty',
and immaturity of theirs (Islamic, Third World, etc.).
The raid on Libya is instructive not only because of the spectacular
mirror reflection between the two sides, but also because they both com-
bined righteous authority and retributive violence in a way that was unques-
tioned and then often replicated. Truly this has been the age of Ayatollahs,
in which a phalanx of guardians (Khomeini, the Pope, Margaret Thatcher)
simplify and protect one or another creed, essence, primordial faith. One
fundamentalism invidiously attacks the others in the name of sanity, free-
dom, and goodness. A curious paradox is that religious fervor seems almost
always to obscure notions of the sacred or divine, as if those could not
survive in the overheated, largely secular atmosphere of fundamentalist
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328 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
combat. You would not think of invoking God’s merciful nature when you
were mobilized by Khomeini (or for that matter, by the Arab champion
against “the Persians” in the nastiest of the 1980s wars, Saddam): you served,
you fought, you fulminated. Similarly, oversize champions of the Cold War
like Reagan and Thatcher demanded, with a righteousness and power that
few clerics could match, obedient service against the Empire of Evil.
The space between the bashing of other religions or cultures and deeply
conservative self-praise has not been filled with edifying analysis or discus-
sion. In the reams of print about Salman Rushdie’s Satanic Verses, only a tiny
proportion discussed the book itself; those who opposed it and recommended
its burning and its author’s death refused to read it, while those who sup-
ported his freedom to write left it self-righteously at that. Much of the
passionate controversy about “cultural literacy” in the United States and
Europe was about what should be read — the twenty or thirty essential
books — not about how they should be read. In many American universities,
the frequent right-thinking response to the demands of newly empowered
marginal groups was to say “show me the African (or Asian, or feminine)
Proust” or “if you tamper with the canon of Western literature you are likely
to be promoting the return of polygamy and slavery.” Whether or not such
hauteur and so caricatural a view of historical process were supposed to
exemplify the humanism and generosity of “our” culture, these sages did not
volunteer.
Their assertions joined a mass of other cultural affirmations whose feature
was that they had been pronounced by expens and professionals. At the
same time, as often noted on the Left and the Right, the general secular
intellectual disappeared. The deaths in the 1980s ofJean-Paul Sartre, Roland
Barthes, I. F. Stone, Michel Foucault, Raymond Williams, and C.L.R. James,
mark the passing of an old order; they had been figures of learning and
authority, whose general scope over many fields gave them more than
professional competence, that is, a critical intellectual style. The techno-
crats, in contrast, as Lyotard says in Postmodern Condition , 5} are principally
competent to solve local problems, not to ask the big questions set by the
grand narratives of emancipation and enlightenment, and there are also the
carefully accredited policy experts who serve the security managers who
have guided international affairs.
With the virtual exhaustion of grand systems and total theories (the Cold
War, the Bretton Woods entente, Soviet and Chinese collectivized econo-
mies, Third World anti-imperialist nationalism), we enter a new period of
vast uncertainty. This is what Mikhail Gorbachev so powerfully represented
until he was succeeded by the far less uncertain Boris Yeltsin. Perestroika and
glasnost, the key words associated with Gorbachev’s reforms, expressed dis-
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Movements and Migrations
329
satisfaction with the past and, at most, vague hopes about the future, but they
were neither theories nor visions. His restless travels gradually revealed a
new map of the world, most of it almost frighteningly interdependent, most
of it intellectually, philosophically, ethnically, and even imaginatively un-
charted. Large masses of people, greater in number and hopes than ever
before, want to eat better and more frequently; large numbers also want to
move, talk, sing, dress. If the old systems cannot respond to those demands,
the gigantic media-hastened images that provoke administered violence and
rabid xenophobia will not serve either. They can be counted on to work for
a moment, but then they lose their mobilizing power. There are too many
contradictions between reductive schemes and overwhelming impulses and
drives.
The old invented histories and traditions and efforts to rule are giving
way to newer, more elastic and relaxed theories of what is so discrepant and
intense in the contemporary moment In the West, post-modernism has seized
upon the ahistorical weightlessness, consumerism, and spectacle of the new
order. To it are affiliated other ideas like post-Marxism and post-structural-
ism, varieties of what the Italian philosopher Gianni Vatimo describes as
“the weak thought” of “the end of modernity.” Yet in the Arab and Islamic
world many artists and intellectuals like Adonis, Elias Khoury, Kamal Abu
Deeb, Muhammad Arkoun, and Jamal Ben Sheikh are still concerned with
modernity itself, still far from exhausted, still a major challenge in a culture
dominated by turath (heritage) and orthodoxy. This is similarly the case in
the Caribbean, East Europe, Latin America, Africa, and the Indian subconti-
nent; these movements intersect culturally in a fascinating cosmopolitan
space animated by internationally prominent writers like Salman Rushdie,
Carlos Fuentes, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Milan Kundera, who intervene
forcefully not only as novelists but also as commentators and essayists. And
their debate over what is modern or post-modern is joined by the anxious,
urgent question of how we are to modernize, given the cataclysmic upheav-
als the world is experiencing as it moves into the fin de si'ecle, that is, how we
are going to keep up life itself when the quotidian demands of the present
threaten to outstrip the human presence?
The case ofjapan is extraordinarily symptomatic, as it is described by the
Japanese-American intellectual Masao Miyoshi. Remark, he says, that, as
everyone knows, according to studies of “the enigma of Japanese power,”
Japanese banks, corporations, and real-estate conglomerates now far over-
shadow (indeed dwarf) their American counterparts. Real-estate values in
Japan are many times higher than in the United States, once considered the
very citadel of capital. The world’s ten largest banks are mostly Japanese,
and much of the United States’ huge foreign debt is held by Japan (and
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3J0 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
Taiwan). Although there was some prefiguring of this in the brief ascen-
dancy of Arab oil-producing states in the 1970s, Japanese international eco-
nomic power is unparalleled, especially, as Miyoshi says, in being tied to an
almost total absence of international cultural power. Japan’s contemporary
verbal culture is austere, even impoverished — dominated by talk shows,
comic books, relentless conferences and panel discussions. Miyoshi diag-
noses a new problematic for culture as a corollary to the country’s staggering
financial resources, an absolute disparity between the total novelty and
global dominance in the economic sphere, and the impoverishing retreat and
dependence on the West in cultural discourse. 5 '’
From the details of daily life to the immense range of global forces
(including what has been called “the death of nature”) — all these importune
the troubled soul, and there is little to mitigate their power or the crises they
create. The two general areas of agreement nearly everywhere are that
personal freedoms should be safeguarded, and that the earth’s environment
should be defended against further decline. Democracy and ecology, each
providing a local context and plenty of concrete combat zones, are set
against a cosmic backdrop. Whether in the struggle of nationalities or in the
problems of deforestation and global warming, the interactions between
individual identity (embodied in minor activities like smoking or using of
aerosol cans) and the general framework are tremendously direct, and the
time-honored conventions of art, history, and philosophy do not seem well-
suited to them. Much of what was so exciting for four decades about
Western modernism and its aftermath — in, say, the elaborate interpretative
strategies of critical theory or the self-consciousness of literary and musical
forms — seems almost quaintly abstract, desperately Eurocentric today.
More reliable now are the reports from the front line where struggles are
being fought between domestic tyrants and idealist oppositions, hybrid
combinations of realism and fantasy, cartographic and archeological descrip-
tions, explorations in mixed forms (essay, video or film, photograph, memoir,
story, aphorism) of unhoused exilic experiences.
The major task, then, is to match the new economic and socio-political
dislocations and configurations of our time with the startling realities of
human interdependence on a world scale. If the Japanese, East European,
Islamic, and Western instances express anything in common, it is that a new
critical consciousness is needed, and this can be achieved only by revised
attitudes to education. Merely to urge students to insist on one’s own
identity, history, tradition, uniqueness may initially get them to name their
basic requirements for democracy and for the right to an assured, decently
humane existence. But we need to go on and to situate these in a geography
of other identities, peoples, cultures, and then to study how, despite their
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Movements and Migrations
W
differences, they have always overlapped one another, through unhierarch-
ical influence, crossing, incorporation, recollection, deliberate forgetfulness,
and, of course, conflict. We are nowhere near “the end of history,” but we
are still far from free from monopolizing attitudes toward it. These have not
been much good in the past — notwithstanding the rallying cries of the
politics of separatist identity, multiculturalism, minority discourse — and the
quicker we teach ourselves to find alternatives, the better and safer. The fact
is, we are mixed in with one another in ways that most national systems of
education have not dreamed of. To match knowledge in the arts and
sciences with these integrative realities is, 1 believe, the intellectual and
cultural challenge of moment.
The steady critique of nationalism, which derives from the various theo-
rists of liberation I have discussed, should not be forgotten, for we must not
condemn ourselves to repeat the imperial experience. In the redefined and
yet very close contemporary relationship between culture and imperialism,
a relationship that enables disquieting forms of domination, how can we
sustain the liberating energies released by the great decolonizing resistance
movements and the mass uprisings of the 1980s? Can these energies elude the
homogenizing processes of modern life, hold in abeyance the interventions
of the new imperial centrality?
“All things counter, original, spare, strange": Gerard Manley Hopkins in
“Pied Beauty.” The question is, Where? And where too, we might ask, is there
a place for that astonishingly harmonious vision of time intersecting with the
timeless that occurs at the end of “Little Gidding,” a moment that Eliot saw
as words in
An easy commerce of the old and the new.
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic.
The complete consort dancing together . 55
Virilio’s notion is counter-habitation: to live as migrants do in habitually
uninhabited but nevertheless public spaces. A similar notion occurs in Milk
Plateaux (volume 1 of the Anti-Oedipe) by Gilles Deleuze and F 61 ix Guattari.
A great deal of this immensely rich book is not easily accessible, but I have
found it mysteriously suggestive. The chapter entitled “Trait£ de
nomadologie: La Machine de guerre,” builds on Virilio’s work by extending
his ideas on movement and space to a highly eccentric study of an itinerant
war machine. This quite original treatise contains a metaphor about a
disciplined kind of intellectual mobility in an age of institutionalization,
regimentation, co-optation. The war machine, Deleuze and Guattari say,
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3 11 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
can be assimilated to the military powers of the state — but, since it is
fundamentally a separate entity, need not be, any more than the spirit’s
nomadic wanderings need always be put at the service of institutions. The
war machine’s source of strength is not only its nomadic freedom but also
its metallurgical art — which Deleuze and Guattari compare to the art of
musical composition — by which materials are forged, fashioned “beyond
separate forms; [this metallurgy, like music] stresses the continuing develop-
ment ofform itself, and beyond individually differing materials it stresses the
continuing variation within matter itself ” 56 Precision, concreteness, conti-
nuity, form — all these have the attributes of a nomadic practice whose
power, Virilio says, is not aggressive but transgressive . 57
We can perceive this truth on the political map of the contemporary
world. For surely it is one of the unhappiest characteristics of the age to have
produced more refugees, migrants, displaced persons, and exiles than ever
before in history, most of them as an accompaniment to and, ironically
enough, as afterthoughts of great post-colonial and imperial conflicts. As the
struggle for independence produced new states and new boundaries, it also
produced homeless wanderers, nomads, and vagrants, unassimilated to the
emerging structures of institutional power, rejected by the established order
for their intransigence and obdurate rebelliousness. And insofar as these
people exist between the old and the new, between the old empire and the
new state, their condition articulates the tensions, irresolutions, and con-
tradictions in the overlapping territories shown on the cultural map of
imperialism.
There is a great difference, however, between the optimistic mobility, the
intellectual liveliness, and “the logic of daring” described by the various
theoreticians on whose work I have drawn, and the massive dislocations,
waste, misery, and horrors endured in our -century’s migrations and muti-
lated lives. Yet it is no exaggeration to say that liberation as an intellectual
mission, born in the resistance and opposition to the confinements and
ravages of imperialism, has now shifted from the settled, established, and
domesticated dynamics of culture to its unhoused, decentered, and exilic
energies, energies whose incarnation today is the migrant, and whose con-
sciousness is that of the intellectual and artist in exile, the political figure
between domains, between forms, between homes, and between languages.
From this perspective then all things are indeed counter, original, spare,
strange. From this perspective also, one can see “the complete consort
dancing together” contrapuntally. And while it would be the rankest Pan-
glossian dishonesty to say that the bravura performances of the intellectual
exile and the miseries of the displaced person or refugee are the same, it is
possible, I think, to regard the intellectual as first distilling then articulating
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Movements and Migrations
333
the predicaments that disfigure modernity — mass deportation, imprison-
ment, population transfer, collective dispossession, and forced immigrations.
“The past life of emigres is, as we know, annulled,” says Adorno in
Minima Moraiia, subtitled Reflections from a Damaged Life (Refrexionen aus dem
beschadigten Leben). Why? “Because anything that is not reified, cannot be
counted and measured, ceases to exist ” 58 or, as he says later, is consigned to
mere “background.” Although the disabling aspects of this fate are manifest,
its virtues or possibilities are worth exploring. Thus the emigre conscious-
ness — a mind of winter, in Wallace Stevens’s phrase — discovers in its mar-
ginality that “a gaze averted from the beaten track, a hatred of brutality, a
search for fresh concepts not yet encompassed by the general pattern, is the
last hope for thought .” 55 Adorno’s general pattern is what in another place
he calls the “administered world” or, insofar as the irresistible dominants in
culture are concerned, “the consciousness industry.” There is then not just
the negative advantage of refuge in the emigre’s eccentricity; there is also
the positive benefit of challenging the system, describing it in language
unavailable to those it has already subdued:
In an intellectual hierarchy which constantly makes everyone answera-
ble, un answerability alone can call the hierarchy directly by its name.
The circulation sphere, whose stigmata are borne by intellectual out-
siders, opens a last refuge to the mind that it barters away, at the very
moment when refuge no longer exists. He who offers for sale something
unique that no one wants to buy, represents, even against his will,
freedom from exchange . 60
These are certainly minimal opportunities, although a few pages later
Adorno expands the possibility of freedom by prescribing a form of expres-
sion whose opacity, obscurity, and deviousness — the absence of “the full
transparency of its logical genesis” — move away from the dominant system,
enacting in its “inadequacy” a measure of liberation:
This inadequacy resembles that of life, which describes a wavering,
deviating line, disappointing by comparison with its premises, and yet
which only in this actual course, always less than it should be, is able,
under given conditions of existence, to represent an unregimented
one . 61
Too privatized, we are likely to say about this respite from regimentation.
Yet we can rediscover it not only in the obdurately subjective, even negative
Adorno, but in the public accents of an Islamic intellectual like Ali Shariati,
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334 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
a prime force in the early days of the Iranian Revolution, when his attack
on “the true, straight path, this smooth and sacred highway” — organized
orthodoxy — contrasted with the deviations of constant migration:
man, this dialectical phenomenon, is compelled to be always in mo-
tion. . . . Man, then, can never attain a final resting place and take up
residence in God. . . . How disgraceful, then, are all fixed standards.
Who can ever fix a standard? Man is a “choice,” a struggle, a constant
becoming. He is an infinite migration, a migration within himself, from
clay to God; he is a migrant within his own soul .* 2
Here we have a genuine potential for an emergent non-coercive culture
(although Shariati speaks only of “man” and not of “woman”), which in its
awareness of concrete obstacles and concrete steps, exactness without vul-
garity, precision but not pedantry, shares the sense of a beginning which
occurs in all genuinely radical efforts to start again 63 — for example, the
tentative authorization of feminine experience in Virginia Woolf's A Room
of One’s Own, or the fabulous reordination of time and character giving rise
to the divided generations of Midnight's Children, or the remarkable univer-
salizing of the African-American experience as it emerges in such brilliant
detail in Toni Morrison’s Tar Baby and Beloved. The push or tension comes
from the surrounding environment — the imperialist power that would
otherwise compel you to disappear or to accept some miniature version of
yourself as a doctrine to be passed out on a course syllabus. These are not
new master discourses, strong new narratives, but, as in John Berger’s pro-
gram, another way of telling. When photographs or texts are used merely to
establish identity and presence— to give us merely representative images of
the Woman, or the Indian — they enter what Berger calls a control system.
With their innately ambiguous, hence negative and anti-narrativist way-
wardness not denied, however, they permit unregimented subjectivity to
have a social function: “fragile images [family photographs] often carried
next to the heart, or placed by the side of the bed, are used to refer to that
which historical time has no right to destroy .” 64
From another perspective, the exilic, the marginal, subjective, migratory
energies of modern life, which the liberationist struggles have deployed
when these energies are too toughly resilient to disappear, have also
emerged in what Immanuel Wallerstein calls “anti-systemic movements.”
Remember that the main feature of imperialist expansion historically was
accumulation, a process that accelerated during the twentieth century. Wal-
lerstein’s argument is that at bottom capital accumulation is irrational; its
additive, acquisitive gains continue unchecked even though its costs — in
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Movements and Migrations
maintaining the process, in paying for wars to protect it, in “buying off” and
co-opting “intermediate cadres,” in living in an atmosphere of permanent
crisis — are exorbitant, not worth the gains. Thus, Wallerstein says, “the very
superstructure [of state power and the national cultures that support the idea
of state power] that was put in place to maximize the free flow of the factors
of production in the world-economy is the nursery of national movements
that mobilize against the inequalities inherent in the world system.” 61 Those
people compelled by the system to play subordinate or imprisoning roles
within it emerge as conscious antagonists, disrupting it, proposing claims,
advancing arguments that dispute the totalitarian compulsions of the world
market. Not everything can be bought off.
All these hybrid counter-energies, at work in many fields, individuals, and
moments provide a community or culture made up of numerous anti-
systemic hints and practices for collective human existence (and neither
doctrines nor complete theories) that is not based on coercion or domi-
nation. They fuelled the uprisings of the 1980s, about which I spoke earlier.
The authoritative, compelling image of the empire, which crept into and
overtook so many procedures of intellectual mastery that are central in
modern culture, finds its opposite in the renewable, almost sporty discon-
tinuities of intellectual and secular impurities — mixed genres, unexpected
combinations of tradition and novelty, political experiences based on com-
munities of effort and interpretation (in the broadest sense of the word)
rather than classes or corporations of possession, appropriation, and power.
I find myself returning again and again to a hauntingly beautiful passage
by Hugo of St. Victor, a twelfth-century monk from Saxony:
It is therefore, a source of great virtue for the practiced mind to learn,
bit by bit, first to change about in visible and transitory things, so that
afterwards it may be able to leave them behind altogether. The person
who finds his homeland sweet is still a tender beginner; he to whom
every soil is as his native one is already strong; but he is perfect to
whom the entire world is as a foreign place. The tender soul has fixed
his love on one spot in the world; the strong person has extended his
love to all places; the perfect man has extinguished his. 66
Erich Auerbach, the great German scholar who spent the years of World
War Two as an exile in Turkey, cites this passage as a model for anyone-
man and woman— wishing to transcend the restraints of imperial or national
or provincial limits. Only through this attitude can a historian, for example,
begin to grasp human experience and its written records in all their diversity
and particularity; otherwise one would remain committed more to the
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33 6 FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
exclusions and reactions of prejudice than to the negative freedom of real
knowledge. But note that Hugo twice makes it clear that the “strong” or
“perfect” person achieves independence and detachment by working through
attachments, not by rejecting them. Exile is predicated on the existence of,
love for, and a real bond with one’s native place; the universal truth of exile
is not that one has lost that love or home, but that inherent in each is an
unexpected, unwelcome loss. Regard experiences then as if they were about
to disappear: what is it about them that anchors or roots them in reality?
What would you save of them, what would you give up, what would you
recover? To answer such questions you must have the independence and
detachment of someone whose homeland is “sweet,” but whose actual condi-
tion makes it impossible to recapture that sweetness, and even less possible
to derive satisfaction from substitutes furnished by illusion or dogma,
whether deriving from pride in one’s heritage or from certainty about who
“we” are.
No one today is purely one thing. Labels like Indian, or woman, or
Muslim, or American are not more than starting-points, which if followed
into actual experience for only a moment are quickly left behind. Imperial-
ism consolidated the mixture of cultures and identities on a global scale. But
its worst and most paradoxical gift was to allow people to believe that they
were only, mainly, exclusively, white, or Black, or Western, or Oriental. Yet
just as human beings make their own history, they also make their cultures
and ethnic identities. No one can deny the persisting continuities of long
traditions, sustained habitations, national languages, and cultural geogra-
phies, but there seems no reason except fear and prejudice to keep insisting
on their separation and distinctiveness, as if that was all human life was
about. Survival in fact is about the connections between things; in Eliot’s
phrase, reality cannot be deprived of the “other echoes [that] inhabit the
garden.” It is more rewarding — and more difficult — to think concretely and
sympathetically, contrapuntally, about others than only about “us,” But this
also means not trying to rule others, not trying to classify them or put them
in hierarchies, above all, not constantly reiterating how “our” culture or
country is number one (or not number one, for that matter). For the intelleci
tual there is quite enough of value to do without that.
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Notes
INTRODUCTION
1. Robert Hughes, The Fatal Short: The Epic of Australia's Founding (N ew York: Knopf, 1987),
p. 786.
2. Paul Carter, The Road to Botany Bay: An Exploration of Landscape and History (New York:
Knopf, 1988), pp. 202-60. As a supplement to Hughes and Carter, see Sneja Gunew, “Denatu-
ralizing Cultural Nationalisms: Multicultural Readings of 'Australia,' ” in Nation and Narra-
tion, ed. Homi K. Bhabha (London: Routledge, 1990), pp. 99-120.
3. Joseph Conrad, Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard (1904; rprt. Garden City: Doubleday,
Page, 1927;, p. 77. Strangely, Ian Watt, one of Conrad’s best critics, has next to nothing to say
about United States imperialism in Nostromo: see his Conrad: 'Nostromo" (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1988). Some suggestive insights into the relationship between geogra-
phy, trade, and fetishism are found in David Simpson, Fetishism and Imagination: Dickens,
Melville, Conrad (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1982), pp. 93-116.
4. Lila Abu-Lughod, Veiled Sentiments: Honor and Poetry in a Bedouin Society (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1987); Leila Ahmed, Women and Gender in Islam: Historical Roots
of a Modem Debate (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992); Fedwa Malti-Douglas, Woman's
Body, Woman's World: Gender and Discourse in Arabo-Islamic Writing (Princeton: Princeton Uni-
versity Press, 1991).
7. Sara Suleri, The Rhetoric of English India (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992);
Lisa Lowe, Critical Terrains : French and British Orientalisms (Ithaca: Cornell University Press,
1991).
6, Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr., The Disuniting of America: Reflections on a Multicultural Society
(New York: Whittle Communications, 1991).
CHAPTER ONE
OVERLAPPING TERRITORIES, INTERTWINED HISTORIES
1. T. S. Eliot, Critical Essays (London: Faber & Faber, 1932), pp. 14— ij.
2. See Lyndall Gordon, Eliot’s Early Years (Oxford and New York: Oxford University
Press, 1977), pp. 49-74.
3. C. C. Eldridge, England’s Mission: The Imperial Idea in the Age of Gladstone and Disraeli \
1&68-1&&0 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1974).
4. Patrick O’Brien, “The Costs and Benefits of British Imperialism,” Past and Present, No.
120, 1988.
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f. Lance E, Davis and Robert A. Huttenback, Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire: The
Political Economy of British Imperialism, tUo-spzo (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986).
6 . See William Roger Louis, ed.. Imperialism: The Robinson /tnd Gallagher Controversy (New
York: New Viewpoints, 1976).
7. For example, Andre Gunder Frank, Dependent Accumulation and Underdevelopment (New
York: Monthly Review, 1979), and Samir Amin, L'Accumulation d I'echelle mondialc (Paris:
Anthropos, 1970).
8. O’Brien, “Costs and Benefits,” pp. 180-81.
9. Harry Magdoff, Imperialism: From the Colonial Age to tbe Present (New York: Monthly
Review, 1978), pp. 29 and 33.
10. William H. McNeill, The Pursuit of Power Technology, Armed Forces and Society Since 1000
a.d. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983), pp. 260-61.
n. V. G. Kiernan, Marxism and Imperialism (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1974), p. in.
12. Richard W. Van Alstyne, The Rising American Empire (New York: Norton, 1974), p. 1.
See also Walter LaFeber, The New Empire An Interpretation of American Expansion (Ithaca:
Cornell University Press, 1963).
13. See Michael H. Hunt, Ideology and U.S. Foreign Policy (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1987).
14. Michael W. Doyle, Empires (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986), p. 45.
13. David Landes, The Unbound Prometheus: Technological Change and Industrial Development
in Western Europe from ryyo to the Present (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969), p. 37.
16. Tony Smith, The Pattern of Imperialism: The United States, Great Britain, and tbe Late
Industrializing World Since iSiy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), p. 5:. Smith
quotes Gandhi on this point.
17. Kieman, Marxism and Imperialism, p. in.
18. D. K. Fieldhouse, The Colonial Empires: A Comparative Survey from the Eighteenth Century
(1965; rprt Houndmills: Macmillan, 1991), p. 103.
19. Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Constance Farrington (1961; rprt New
York: Grove, 1968), p. 101.
20. J. A. Hobson, Imperialism: A Study (1902; rprt Ann Arbor. University of Michigan Press,
*97*). P- >97-
21. Selected Poetry and Prose of Blake, ed. Northrop Frye (New York: Random House, 1953),
p. 447. One of the few works to deal with Blake’s anti-imperialism is David V. Erdman, Blake:
Prophet Against Empire (New York: Dover, 1991).
22. Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son (1848; rprt. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1970), p. 50.
23. Raymond Williams, “Introduction,” in Dickens, Dombey and Son, pp. 11-12.
24. Martin Bernal, Black Athena: The Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization, Vol. 1 (New
Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1987), pp. 280-336.
23. Bernard S. Cohn, “Representing Authority in Victorian India,” in Eric Hobsbawm
and Terence Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1985). PP- 18.5-207.
26. Quoted in Philip D. Curtin, ed.. Imperialism (New York: Walker, 1971), pp. 294—93.
27. Salman Rushdie, “Outside the Whale,” in Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism,
ipSt—ippi (London: Viking/Granta, 1991), pp. 92, 101.
28. This is the message of Conor Cruise O’Brien’s “Why the Wailing Ought to Stop,”
The Observer, June 3, 1984
29. Joseph Conrad, “Heart of Darkness," in Youth and Tvx> Other Stories (Garden City:
Doubleday, Page, 1923), p. 82.
30. For Mackinder, see Neil Smith, Uneven Development: Nature, Capital and the Production
of Space (Oxford: Blackwell, 1984), pp. 102-3. Conrad and triumphalist geography are at the
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Notes
m
heart of Felix Driver, “Geography's Empire: Histories of Geographical Knowledge,” Society
and space, 1991.
31. Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951; new ed. New York: Harcourt
Brace Jovanovich, 1973), P- 2I 5- See also Fredric Jameson, The Political Unconscious: Narrative as
a Socially Symbolic Act (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1981), pp. 208-81.
32. Jean-Franpois Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, trans. Geoff
Bennington and Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984), p. 37.
33. See especially Foucault’s late work, The Care of the Self trans. Robert Hurley (New
York: Pantheon, 1986). A bold new interpretation arguing that Foucault's entire oeuvre is about
the self, and his in particular, is advanced in The Passion of Michel Foucault by James Miller
(New York: Simon & Schuster, 1993).
34. See, for example, Girard Chaliand, Revolution in the Third World (Harmondsworth:
Penguin, 1978).
35. Rushdie, “Outside the Whale,” pp. 100-101.
31L Ian Watt, Conrad in the Nineteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press,
>979). PP- J75-79-
37. Eric Hobsbawm, “Introduction,” in Hobsbawm and Ranger, Invention of Tradition, p. i.
38. Jean-Baptiste-Joseph Fourier, Preface historique, Vol. 1 of Description de I’Egypte (Paris:
Imprimerie royale, 1809-1828), p. 1.
39. ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Jabarti, Aja’ib al-Athar ft al-TaraJum via al-Akhbar, Vol. 4 (Cairo:
Lajnat al-Bayan al-‘Arabi, 1978-1967), p. 284
40. See Christopher Miller, Blank Darkness: Africanist Discourse in French (Chicago: Uni-
versity of Chicago Press, 1987), and Arnold Temu and Bonaventure Swai, Historians and
Africanist History: A Critique (Westport: Lawrence Hill, 1981).
41. Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1983); Talal Asad, ed., Anthropology and the Colonial Encounter
(London: Ithaca Press, 1977); Brian S. Turner, Marx and the F.nd of Orientalism (London: Allen
& Unwin, 1978). For a discussion of some of these works, see Edward W. Said, “Orientalism
Reconsidered," Race and Class 27, No. 2 (Autumn 1987), 1-17.
42. Peter Gran, The Islamic Roots of Capitalism: Egypt, 17(0-1840 (Austin: University of T exas
Press, 1979); Judith Tucker, Women w Nineteenth Century Egypt (Cairo: American University in
Cairo Press, 1986); Hanna Batatu, The Old Social Classes and the Revolutionary Movements of Iraq
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978); Syed Hussein Alatas, The Myth of the Lazy
Native: A Study of the Image of the Malays, Filipinos, and Javanese from the Sixteenth to the Twentieth
Century and Its Function in the Ideologs of Colonial Capitalism (London: Frank Cass, 1977).
43. Gauri Viswanathan, The Masks of Conquest: Literary Study and British Rule in India (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1989}-
44 Francis Fergusson, The Human Image in Dramatic Literature (New York: Doubleday,
Anchor, 1977) pp. 2oy-6.
47. Erich Auerbach, “Philology and Weltliteratur," trans, M. and E. W, Said, Centennial
Review 13 (Winter 1989); see my discussion of this work in The World, the Text, and the Critic
(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1983), pp. 1-9.
46. George E. Woodberry, “Editorial” (1903), in Comparative Literature: The Early Years, An
Anthology of Essays, eds. Hansjoachim Schulz and Phillip K. Rein (Chapel Hill: University of
North Carolina Press, 1973), P- 21 >- $ ee also Harry Levin, Grounds for Comparison (Cambridge,
Mass: Harvard University Press, 1972), pp. 77-130; Claudio Guillem, Entre to uno y lo diverso:
Introduccidn a la literatura comparada (Barcelona: Editorial Critica, 1987), pp. 74—121.
47. Erich Aueibach, Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature, trans.
Willard Trask (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1973). See also Said, “Secular Criti-
cism," in The World, the Text, and the Critic, pp. 31—73 and 148-49.
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Notes
340
48. The National Defense Education Act (NDEA). An act of the United States Congress
passed in 19/8, it authorized the expenditure of $29/ million for science and languages, both
deemed important for national security. Departments of Comparative Literature were among
the beneficiaries of this act.
49. Cited in Smith, Uneven Development, pp. 101-2.
30. Antonio Gramsci, “Some Aspects of the Southern Question,” in Selections from Political
Writings, 1921-1926, trans. and ed. Quintin Hoare (London: Lawrence 8c Wishart, 1978), p. 461.
For an unusual application of Gramsci’s theories about "Southernism,” see Timothy Brennan,
“Literary Criticism and the Southern Question,” Cultural Critique, No. 11 (Winter 1988-89),
89—114.
n. John Stuart Mill, Principles of Political Economy, Vol. 3, ed. J. M. Robson (Toronto:
University of Toronto Press, 19 63), p. 693.
CHAPTER TWO
CONSOLIDATED VISION
1. Richard Slotkin, Regeneration Through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier,
1600-1860 (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 1973); Patricia Nelson Limerick, The
Legacy of Conquest: The Unbroken Past of the American West (New York: Norton, 1988); Michael
Paul Rogin, Fathers and Children: Andrew Jackson and the Subjugation of the American Indian (New
York: Knopf, 1973-).
2. Bruce Robbins, The Servant’s Hand: English Fiction from Below (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1986).
3. Gareth Stedman Jones, Outcast London: A Study in the Relationship Between the Classes in
Victorian Society (1971; rprt. New York: Pantheon, 1984).
4. Eric Wolf, Europe and the People Without History (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1982).
3. Martin Green, Dreams of Adventure, Deeds of Empire (New York: Basic Books, 1979);
Molly Mahood, The Colonial Encounter: A Reading of Six Novels (London: Rex Collings, 1977);
John A. McClure, Kipling and Conrad: The Colonial Fiction (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Univer-
sity Press, 1981); Patrick Brantlinger, The Rule of Darkness: British Literature and Imperialism,
1830-1914 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988). See also John Barrell, The Infection of Thomas
de Quinary: A Psychopathology of Imperialism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991).
6. William Appleman Williams, Empire as a Way of Life (New York and Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1980), pp. 112—13.
7. Jonah Raskin, The Mythology of Imperialism (New York: Random House, 1971); Gordon
K. Lewis, Slavery, Imperialism, and Freedom: Studies in English Radical Thought (New York:
Monthly Review, 1978); V. G. Kiernan, The Lords of Human Kind: Black Man, Yellow Man, and
White Man in an Age of Empire (1969; rprt. New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), and
Marxism and Imperialism (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1974). A more recent work is Eric
Cheyfitz, The Poetics of Imperialism: Translation and Colonization from The Tempest to Tarzan
(New York: Oxford University Press, 1991). Benita Parry, Conrad and Imperialism (London:
Macmillan, 1983), cogently discusses these and other works in the context provided by
Conrad’s fiction.
8. E. M. Forster, Howards End (New York: Knopf, 1921), p. 204.
9. Raymond Williams, Politics and Letters: Interviews with New Left Review (London: New
Left, 1979), p. 118.
10. Williams’s Culture and Society, 1/80-1930, was published in 1938 (London: Chatto 8t
Windus).
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Notes
W
11. Joseph Conrad, “Heart of Darkness,” in Youth anti Two Other Stories (Garden City:
Doubleday, Page, 191;), pp. 70-71. For a demystifying account of the connection between
modem culture and redemption, see Leo Bersani, The Culture of Redemption (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1990).
12. Theories and justifications of imperial style — ancient versus modem, English versus
French, and so on — were in plentiful supply after 1880. See as a celebrated example Evelyn
Baring (Cromer), Ancient and Modern Imperialism (London: Murray, 1910). See also C. A.
Bodelsen, Studies in Mid-Victorian Imperialism (New York: Howard Fertig, 1968), and Richard
Faber, The Vision and the Need: Late Victorian Imperialist Aims (London: Faber it Faber, 1966).
An earlier but still useful work is Klaus Knorr, British Colonial Theories (Toronto: University
of Toronto Press, 1944).
13. Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1957); Lennard
Davis, factual Fictions: The Origins of the English Novel (New York: Columbia University Press,
1983); John Richetti, Popular Fiction Before Richardson (London: Oxford University Press, 1969);
Michael McKeon, The Origin of the English Novel, 1600-1740 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Univer-
sity Press, 1987).
14. J. R. Seeley, The Expansion of England (1884; rprt. Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1971), p. 12; J. A. Hobson, Imperialism: A Study (1902; rprt. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan
Press, 1972), p. 15. Although Hobson implicates other European powers in the perversions of
imperialism, England stands out
15. Raymond Williams, The Country and the City (New York: Oxford University Press,
1973), pp. 167-82 and passim.
1 6. D.C.M. Platt, Finance, Trade and Politics in British Foreign Policy, 1S1J-1P14 (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1968), p. 736.
17. Ibid., p. 377.
18. Joseph Schumpeter, Imperialism and Social Classes, trans. Heinz Norden (New York:
Augustus M. Kelley, 1971), p. 12.
19. Platt, Finance, Trade and Politics, p. 379.
20. Ronald Robinson and John Gallagher, with Alice Denny, Africa and the Victorians: The
Official Mind of Imperialism (1961; new ed. London: Macmillan, 1981), p. 10. But for a vivid sense
of what effects this thesis has had in scholarly discussion of empire, see William Roger Louis,
ed., Imperialism: The Robinson and Gallagher Controversy (New York: Franklin Watts, 1976). An
essential compilation for the whole field of study is Robin Winks, ed., The Historiography of
the British Empire-Commonwealth: Trends, Interpretations, and Resources (Durham: Duke University
Press, 1966). Two compilations mentioned by Winks (p. 6) are Historians of India, Pakistan and
Ceylon, ed. Cyril H. Philips, and Historians of South East Asia, ed. D.G.E. Hall.
21. Fredric Jameson, The Political Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act (Ithaca:
Cornell University Press, 1981); David A. Miller, The Novel and the Police (Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1988). See also Hugh Ridley, Images of Imperial Rule (London: Croom Helm,
1983).
22. In John MacKenzie, Propaganda and Empire: The Manipulation of British Public Opinion,
iSSo-ip6o (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1984), there is an excellent account of
how popular culture was effective in the official age of empire. See also MacKenzie, ed..
Imperialism and Popular Culture (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1986); for more
subtle manipulations of the English national identity during the same period, see Robert Colls
and Philip Dodd, eds., Englisbness: Politics and Culture, iSSo-ifto (London: Croom Helm, 1987).
See also Raphael Samuel, ed., Patriotism: The Making and Unmaking of British National Identity,
3 vols. (London: Routledge, 1989).
23. E. M. Forster, A Passage to India (1924; rprt New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1972),
p. 231.
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342
Notes
24. For the attack on Conrad, see Chinua Achebe, “An [mage of Africa: Racism in
Conrad’s Heart of Darkness," in Hopes and Impediments: Selected Essays (New York: Doubleday,
Anchor, 1989), pp, 1-10. Some of the issues raised by Achebe are well discussed by Brantlinger,
Rule of Darkness, pp. 269-74.
25. Deirdre David, Fictions of Resolution in Three Victorian Novels (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1981).
26. Georg Lukacs, The Historical Novel, trans. Hannah and Stanley Mitchell (London:
Merlin Press, 1962), pp. 19-88.
27. Ibid., pp. 30-6;.
28. A few lines from Ruskin are quoted and commented on in R. Koebner and H,
Schmidt, Imperialism : The Story and Significance of a Political World ibqo-iU6 (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1964), p. 99.
29. V. G. Kieman, Marxism and Imperialism (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1974), p. 100.
30. John Stuart Mill, Disquisitions and Discussions, Vol. 3 (London: Longmans, Green,
Reader 8c Dyer, 187/), pp. 167-68. For an earlier version of this see the discussion by Nicholas
Canny, “The Ideology of English Colonization: From Ireland to America,” William and Mary
Quarterly 30 (1973), 575-98.'
. 31. Williams, Country and the City, p. 281.
32. Peter Hulme, Colonial Encounters: Europe and the Native Caribbean, l+ps-rypy (London:
Methuen, 1986). See also his anthology with Neil L. Whitehead, Wild Majesty: Encounters viith
Caribs from Columbus to the Present Day (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992).
33. Hobson, Imperialism, p. 6.
34. This is most memorably discussed in C.LR. James's The Black Jacobins: Toussaint
L’Ouverture and the San Domingo Revolution (1938; rprt. New York: Vintage, 1963), especially
Chapter 2, “The Owners.” See also Robin Blackburn, The Overthrow of Colonial Slavery,
ryytf-tSqS (London: Verso, 1988), pp. 149-53.
35. Williams, Country and the City, p. 117.
36. Jane Austen, Mansfield Part, ed. Tony Tanner (1814; rprt. Harmondsworth: Penguin,
19 66), p. 42. The best account of the novel is in Tony T anner's Jane Austen (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1986).
37. Ibid., p. 54.
38. Ibid., p. 206.
39. Warren Roberts, Jane Austen and the French Revolution (London: Macmillan, 1979),
pp. 97-98. See also Avrom Fleishman, A Reading ofMansfield Park: An Essay in Critical Synthesis
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1967), pp. 36-39 and passim.
40. Austen, Mansfield Pari, pp. 375-76.
41. John Stuart Mill, Principles of Political Economy, Vol. 3, ed. J. M. Robson (Toronto:
University of Toronto Press, 1965), p. 693, The passage is quoted in Sidney W. Mintz, Sweetness
and Power: The Place of Sugar in Modem History (New York: Viking, 1985), p. 42.
42. Austen, Mansfield Park, p. 446.
43. Ibid., p. 448.
44. Ibid., p. 450.
45. Ibid, p. 456.
46. John Gallagher, The Decline, Revival and Fall of the British Empire (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1982), p. 76.
47. Austen, Mansfield Park, p. 308.
48. Lowell Joseph Ragatz, The FaU of the Planter Class in the British Caribbean, lydj-iSjj: A
Study in Social and Economic History (1928; rprt. New York: Octagon, 1963), p. 27.
49. Eric Williams, Capitalism and Slavery (New York: Russell St Russell, 1961), p. 2ir. See
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Notes
343
also his From Columbus to Castro. The History of the Caribbean, 1491-196 '9 (London: Deutsch, 1970),
pp. 177-154-
50. Austen, Mansfield Park, p. 213.
yl, Tzvetan Todorov, Nous et Us autres: La reflexion sur la diversite bumaine (Paris: Seuil,
1989).
$1. Raoul Girardet, L ‘Idee coloniak en France , 1871-1962 (Paris: La Table Ronde, 1971),
pp. 7, io-ij.
$1- Basil Davidson, The African Past: Chronicles from Antiquity to Modem Times (London:
Longmans, 1964), pp. 36 — 57. See also Philip D. Curtin, Image of Africa. British Ideas and Action,
1780-1850, 1 vols. (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1964); Bernard Smith, European
Virion and the South Pacific (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985).
94. Stephen Jay Gould, The Mismeasure of Man (New York: Norton, 1981); Nancy Stepan,
The Idea of Race in Science: Great Britain, 1800-1960 (London: Macmillan, 1982).
55. See the thorough account of these currents in early anthropology by George W.
Stocking, Victorian Anthropology (New York: Free Press, 1987).
y 6. Excerpted in Philip D. Curtin, Imperialism (New York: Walker, 1971), pp. 198-59.
57. John Ruskin, “Inaugural Lecture" (1870), in The Works of John Rurkin, Vol. 20, ed. E.
T. Cook and Alexander Weddenburn (London: George Allen, 1905), p. 41, n. 2.
58. Ibid., pp. 41-43.
59. V. G. Kieman, “T ennyson, King Arthur and Imperialism,” in his Poets, Politics and the
People, ed. Harvey J. Kaye (London: Verso, 1989), p. 134.
60. For a discussion of one major episode in the history of the hierarchical relationship
between West and non-West, see E. W. Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon, 1978),
pp. 48-92, and passim.
6], Hobson, Imperialism, pp. 199-200.
62. Cited in Hubert Deschamps, Let Mhhodes et Us doctrines colonialcs de la France du XVIe
siicU it nos jours (Paris: Armand Colin, 1953), pp. 126-27.
63 See Anna Davin, “Imperialism and Motherhood,” in Samuel, ed,, Patriotism, Vol. 1,
PP- i°J— 35-
<4- Michael Rosenthal, The Character Factory: Baden-Powell's Boy Scouts and the Imperatives
of Empire (New York: Pantheon, 1986), especially pp. 131-60. See also H, John Field, Termed
a Programme of Imperial Life: The British Empire at the Turn of the Century (Westport: Greenwood
Press, 1981).
65. Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1983), pp. 25-69.
66. See Marianna Torgovnick, Gone Primitive: Savage Intellects, Modem Lives (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1990), and for the study of classification, codification, collecting,
and exhibiting, James Clifford, The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth Century Ethnography,
Literature, and Art (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988). Also Street, Savage in
Literature, and Roy Harvey Pearce, Savagism and Civilization: A Study of the Indian and the
American Mind (1953; rev. ed. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988).
67. K. M. Panikkar, Asia and Western Dominance (1959; rprt New York: Macmillan, 1969),
and Michael Adas, Machines as the Measure of Men Science, Technology, and Ideologies of Western
Dominance (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989). Also of interest is Daniel R. Headrick, The
Tools of Empire: Technology and European Imperialism in the Nineteenth Century (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1981).
68. Henri Brunschwig, French Colonialism, 1871-1914 Myths and Realities, trans. W. G. Brown
(New York: Praeger, 1964), pp. 9-10.
69. See Brantlinger, Rule of Darkness: Suvendrini Perera, Reaches of Empire: The English
www.iscalibrary.com
344
Notes
Novel from Edgeworth to Dickens (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991); Christopher
Miller, Blank Darkness: Africanist Discourse in French (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1985).
70, Quoted in Gauri Viswanathan, The Masks of Conquest: Literary Study and British Rule
in India (New York: Columbia University Press, 1989), p. 152.
71. Alfred Crosby, Ecological Imperialism: The Biological Expansion of Europe, poo-tpoo (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986).
71. Guy de Maupassant, Bel-Ami (1885); Georges Duroy is a cavalryman who has served
in Algeria and makes a career as a Parisian journalist who (with some assistance) writes about
life in Algeria, Later he is involved in financial scandals that attend the conquest of Tangiers.
7;. Johannes Fabian, Language and Colonial Power: The Appropriation of Swahili in the Former
Belgian Congo, iSdo-ipjS (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986); Ranajit Guha, A Rule
of Properly for Bengal: An Essay on the Idea of Permanent Settlement (Paris and The Hague: Mouton,
1965); Bernard S, Cohn, “Representing Authority in Victorian India,” in Eric Hobsbawm and
Terence Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1985), pp. 185—207, and his An Anthropologist Among the Historians and Other Essays (Delhi: Oxford
University Press, 1990). Two related works are Richard G. Fox, Lions of the Punjab: Culture in
the Making (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), and Douglas E. Haynes, Rhetoric
and Ritual in Colonial India: The Shaping of Puhlic Culture in Surat City, tiyt-tpiS (Berkeley.
University of California Press, 1991).
74. Fabian, Language and Colonial Power, p. 79.
75. Ronald Inden, Imagining India (London: Blackwell, 1990).
76. Timothy Mitchell, Colonising Egypt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988).
77. Leila Kinney and Zeynep Qelik, “Ethnography and Exhibitionism at the Expositions
Universeltes,” Assemblages 1; (December 1990), 55-59.
78. T. J. Clark, The Painting of Modem Life: Paris in the Art of Manet and His Followers (New
York: Knopf 1984), pp. 155-46; Malek Alloula, The Colonial Harem, trans. Myrna and Wlad
Godzich (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986); and see also Sarah Graham-
Brown, Images of Women: The Portrayal of Women in Photography of the Middle East, rStfo-tpjo (N ew
York: Columbia University Press, 1988).
79. See, for example, Zeynep Qelik, Displaying the Orient: Architecture of Islam at nineteenth
Century World's Fairs (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), and Robert W. Rydell,
All the World’s a Fair: Visions of Empire at American International Expositions, tSyf-iptd (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1984).
80. Herbert Lindenberger, Opera: The Extravagant Art (Ithaca: Cornell University Press,
1984) , pp. 270-80.
81. Antoine Golia, Gespritchc mil Widand Wagner (Salzburg. SN Verlag, 1967), p. 58.
82. Opera 15, No. 1 (January 1962), 55. See also Geoffrey Skelton, Wieland Wagner The
Positive Sceptic (New York: St Martin's Press, 1971), pp. 159 If.
85. Joseph Kerman, Opera as Drama (New York: Knopf, 1956), p. [60.
84. Paul Robinson, Opera and Ideas: From Mozart to Strauss (New York: Harper & Row,
1985) , p. 165.
85. Ibid., p. 164.
86. Verdi's “Aida": The History of an Opera in Letters and Documents, trans. and collected by
Hans Busch (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1978), p. 5.
87. Ibid, pp. 4, 5.
88. Ibid,, p. 126.
89. Ibid., p. 150.
90. Ibid., p. 17.
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Notes
34*
91. Ibid., p. 30. See also Philip Gossett, “Verdi, Ghislanzoni, and Aida; The Uses of
Convention,” Critical Inquiry 1, No. 1 (1974), 291-754.
92. Verdi's “Aida," p. 153.
93. Ibid., p. 212.
94. Ibid., p. 183.
95. Stephen Bann, The Clothing of Clio (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984),
pp. 93-m.
96. Raymond Schwab, The Oriental Renaissance, trans. Gene Patterson-Black and Victor
Reinking (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), p. 86. See also Said, Orientalism,
pp. 80—88
97. Martin Bernal, Black Athena. The Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization, Vol. 1 (New
Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1987), pp. 161-88.
98. Schwab, Oriental Renaissance, p. 25.
99. Jean Humbert, “A propos de I’egyptomanie dans I’oeuvre de Verdi: Attribution a
Auguste Mariette d’un scenario anonyme de I’opira Aida," Revue de Muncologie 61, No. 2 (1976),
229 55 ‘
100. Kinney and C e lik, “Ethnography and Exhibitionism,” p. 36.
101. Brian Fagan, The Rape of the Nile (New York: Scribner’s, 197,9), p. 278.
102. Ibid., p. 276.
103. Kinney and Celik, “Ethnography and Exhibitionism,” p. 38.
104. Verdi's “Aida " p. 444.
103. Ibid., p. 186.
106. Ibid., pp. 261-62.
107. Opera, 1986.
108. Skelton, Wieland Wagner, p. 160. See also Golba, Grspritche mil Wieland Wagner,
pp. 62-63.
109. Verdi's “Aida," p. 138.
no. Muhammd Sabry, Episode de la question d’Afrique: L ’Empire egyptian sous Ismail et I’inger-
ence angfo-firqmjaise (iStfj-iSyp) (Paris: Geuthner, 1933), pp. 391 If.
111. As in Roger Owen, The Middle East and the World Economy, 1S00-1P14 (London: Me-
thuen, 1981).
112. Ibid., p. 122.
113. David Landes, Bankers and Pashas (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1938).
114. Sabry, p. 313.
1 is". Ibid., p. 322.
116. Georges Douin, Histoire du regne du Khedive Ismail, Vol. 2 (Rome: Royal Egyptian
Geographic Society, 1934).
f 117. Landes, Bankers and Pashas, p. 209.
118. Owen, Middle East, pp. 149—70.
119. Ibid., p. 128.
120. Janet L. Abu-Lughod, Cairo; toot Years of the City Victorious (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1971), p. 98.
121. Ibid., p. 107.
122. Jacques Berque, Egypt: Imperialism and Revolution, trans. Jean Stewart (New York:
Praeger, 1972), pp. 96-98.
123. Bernard Semmel, Jamaican Blood and Victorian Conscience: The Governor Eyre Controversy
(Boston: Riverside Press, 1963), p. 179. A comparable occlusion is studied in Irfan Habib,
“Studying a Colonial Economy — Without Perceiving Colonialism,” Modern Asian Studies 19,
No. 3 (1983), 333-81.
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Notes
34 6
124. Thomas Hodgkin, Nationalism in Colonial Africa (London: Muller, 1 956), pp. 29-59.
125. See Adas, Machines as ike Measure of Men, pp. 199—270.
126. As a sample of this sort of thinking, see J. B. Kelly, Arabia, the Gulf ansi the West
(London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1980).
127. Rosenthal, Character Factory, p. 52 and passim.
128. J. A. Mangan, The Games Eshic and Imperialism: Aspects of the Diffusion of an Idea I
(Hatmondsworth: Viking, 1988).
129. J.M.S. Tompkins, “Kipling’s Later Tales: The Theme of Healing,” Modem Language
Review 45 (1950), 18-32.
130. Victor Turner, Dramas, Fields, and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Society (Ithaca:
Cornell University Press, 1974), pp. 258-59. For a subtle meditation on the problems of color
and caste, see S. P. Mohanty, "“Kipling’s Children and the Colour Line,” Race and Class, 31, No.
1 (1989), 21-40, also his “Us and Them: On the Philosophical Bases of Political Criticism,"
Yale Journal of Criticism 2, No. 2 (1989), 1-31.
131. Rudyard Kipling, Kim (1901; rprt Garden City: Doubleday, Doran, 1941), p. 518.
132. Ibid. pp. 518-17.
133. Ibid, p. 517.
134. Ibid., p. 523.
135. George Eliot, Middlemarcb, ed. Ben G. Hornback (New York: Norton, 1977), p. 544.
136. Mark Kinkead-Weekes, “Vision in Kipling’s Novels,” in Kipling's Mind and Art, ed.
Andrew Rutherford (London: Oliver k Boyd, 1984).
137. Edmund Wilson, “The Kipling that Nobody Read,” The Wound and the Bow (New
York: Oxford University Press, 1947), pp. 100-1, 103.
138. Kipling, Kim, p. 242.
139. Ibid, p. 288.
140. Ibid., p. 271.
141. Francis Hutchins, The Illusion of Permanence: British Imperialism in India (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1987), p. 157. See also George Bearce, British Attitudes Towards
India, tySq-tSjS (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1961), and for the unravelling of the system,
see B. R. Tomlinson, The Political Economy of the Raj, tpuf-tpqy: The Economics of Decolonization
in India (London: Macmillan, 1979).
142. Angus Wilson, The Strange Ride of Rudyard Kipling (London: Penguin, 1977), p. 43,
143. George Orwell, “Rudyard Kipling," in A Collection of Essays (New York: Doubleday,
Anchor, 1954), pp. 133-35.
144. Michael Edwardes, The Sahibs and the Lotus: The British in India (London: Constable,
> 9 « 8 ). P- 59 -
145. See Edward W. Said, “Representing the Colonized: Anthropology’s Interlocutors,”
Critical Inquiry 15, No. 2 (Winter 1989), 205-25. See also Lewis D. Wurgaft, The Imperial
Imagination: Magic and Myth in Kipling's India (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 1983),
pp. 54-78, and of course the work of Bernard S. Cohn, Anthropologist Among the Historians.
148. See Eric Stokes, The English Utilitarians and India (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1 959),
and Bearce, British Attitudes Towards India, pp. 153-74 On Bentinck’s educational reform, see
Viswanathan, Masks of Conquest, pp. 44—47.
147. Noel Annan, “Kipling’s Place in the History of Ideas," Victorian Studies 3, No. 4 (June
1980), 323.
148. See notes 11 and 12.
149. Geoffrey Moorhouse, India Britannica (London: Paladin, 1984), p. 103.
150. Ibid., p. 102.
151. Georg Lukacs, The Theory of the Novel, trans. Anna Bostock (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT
Press, 1971), pp. 35 ff.
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347
152. Kipling, Kim, p. 246.
15}. Ibid., p. 248.
154. Lukacs, Theory of the Novel, pp. 125—26.
155. Kipling, Kim, p. 466.
156. Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Constance Farrington (1961; rprt. New
York; Grove, 1968), p. 77. For substantiation of this claim, and the role of legitimizing and
“objective” discourse in imperialism, see Fabiola Jara and Edmundo Magana, “Rules of
Imperialist Method," Dialectical Anthropology 7, No. 2 (September 1982), 115-36.
157. Robert Stafford, Scientist of Empire: Sir Roderick Murchison, Scientific Exploration and
Victorian Imperialism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). For an earlier example,
in India, see Marika Vicziany, “Imperialism, Botany and Statistics in Early Nineteenth-
Century India: The Surveys of Francis Buchanan (1762-1829),” Modem Asian Studies 20, No.
4 (1986), 625-60.
158. Stafford, Scientist of Empire, p. 208.
159. J. Stengers, “King Leopold’s Imperialism,” in Roger Owen and Bob Sutcliffe, eds..
Studies in the Theory of Imperialism (London: Longmans, 1972), p. 260. See also Neil Ascherson,
The King Incorporated: Leopold II in the Age of Trusts (London: Allen & Unwin, 1963}.
160. Achebe, Hopes and Impediments; see note 24.
161. Linda Nochlin, “The Imaginary Orient," Art in America (May 1983), 118-31, 187-91. In
addition, as an extension of Nochlin’s essay, see the remarkably interesting Boston University
doctoral dissertation by Todd B. Porterfield, Art in the Service of French Imperialism in the Near
East. ipflS-rSfS: Four Case Studies (Ann Arbor: University Microfilms, 1991).
162. A. P. Thornton, The Imperial Idea and Its Enemies: A Study in British Power (1959; rev.
ed. London: Macmillan, 1985); Bernard Porter, Critics of Empire British Radical Attitudes to
Colonialism in Africa, tSpy-tpip (London: Macmillan, 1968); Hobson, Imperialism. For France see
Charles Robert Ageron, L'Anticolonialisme en France de tSpi i 1914 (Paris: Presses Universitaires
de France, 1973).
163. See Bodelsen, Studies in Mid-Victorian Imperialism, pp. 147-214.
164 Stephen Charles Neill, Colonialism and Christian Missions (London: Lutterworth,
1966). Neill’s is a very general work whose statements have to be supplemented and qualified
by the large number of detailed works about missionary activity, for example, the work of
Murray A. Rubinstein on China: “The Missionary as Observer and Imagemaken Samuel
Wells Williams and the Chinese,” American Studies (Taipei) 10, No. 3 (September 1980), 31—44;
and “The Northeastern Connection: American Board Missionaries and the Formation of
American Opinion Toward China: 1830-1860,” Bulletin of the Modern History (Academica
Sinica), Taiwan, July 1980.
165. See Bearce, British Attitudes Towards India, pp. 65-17, and Stokes, English Utilitarians 1
and India.
166. Quoted in Syed Hussein Alatas, The Myth of the Lazy Native: A Study of the Image of
the Malays, Filipinos, and Javanese from the Sixteenth to the Twentieth Century and lit Function in
the Ideology of Colonial Capitalism (London: Frank Cass, 1977), p. 59.
167. Ibid., p. 62,
168. Ibid., p. 223.
169. Romila Thapar, “Ideology and the Interpretation of Early Indian History,” Review
5, No. 3 (Winter 1982), 390.
170. Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, On Colonialism: Articles from the New York Tribune
and Other Writings (New York: International, 1972), p. 156.
171. Katherine George, “The Civilized West Looks at Africa: 1400-1800. A Study in
Ethnocentrism,” Isis 49, No. 155 (March 1958), 66, 69-70,
172. For the definition of “primitives” through this technique, see Torgovnick, Gone
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348
Notes
Primitive, pp. i-41. See also Ronald L. Mees, Social Science and the Ignoble Savage (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1976), for an elaborated version of the four-stage theory of the
savage based on European philosophy and cultural thought
173. Brunschwig, French Colonialism, p. 14.
174. Robert Delavigne and Charles Andrt Julien, Let Constructeurs tie la France d’outre-mer
(Paris: Corea, 1946), p. 16. An interestingly different volume, although it deals with similar
figures, is African Proconsuls: European Governors in Africa, eds. L H. Gann and Peter Duignan
(New York: Free Press, 1978). See also Mort Rosenblum, Mission to Civilize: The French Way
(New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1986).
175. Agnes Murphy, The Ideology of French Imperialism, ifr-iSSs (Washington: Catholic
University of America Press, 1968), p. 46 and passim.
17 6. Raoul Girardet, L'Idde colonials en France, ifrt-ip6z (Paris: La Table Ronde, 1972),
pp. 44-45. See also Stuart Michael Persell, The French Colonial Lobby (Stanford- Hoover
Institution Press, 1983).
177. Quoted in Murphy, Ideology of French Imperialism, p. 25.
178. Raymond F. Betts, Assimilation and Association in French Colonial Theory, i!LfO-ipitf (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1961), p. 88.
179. I discuss this material with regard to theories of national identity mobilized for use
in late-nineteenth-century imperialism in “Nationalism, Human Rights, and Interpretation,”
in Freedom and Interpretation, ed. Barbara Johnson (New York: Basic Books, 1992).
180. Betts, Association and Assimilation, p. 108.
181. Ibid., p. 174.
182. Girardet, L 'Idle coloniale en France, p. 48.
183. For one small episode in the imperial competition with England, see the fascinating
glimpse afforded by Albert Hourani, “T. E. Lawrence and Louis Massignon,” in his Islam in
European Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 116-28. See also Christo-
pher M. Andrew and A. S. Kanya-Forstner, The Climax of French Imperial Expansion, ipity-ipz 4
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1981).
184. David Prochaska, Making Algeria French: Colonialism in Bone, tbyo-ipzo (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1990), p. 85. For a fascinating study of the way French social
scientists and urban planners used Algeria as a place to experiment on, and to redesign, see
Gwendolyn Wright, The Polities of Design in French Colonial Urbanism (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1991), pp. 66-84- Later sections of the book discuss the effect of these plans on
Morocco, Indochina, and Madagascar. The definitive study, however, is Janet Abu-Lughod,
Rabat: Urban Apartheid in Morocco (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980).
185. Ibid., p. 124.
186. Ibid., pp, 141-42.
187. Ibid., p. 255.
188. Ibid., p. 254.
189. Ibid., p. 255.
190. Ibid „ p 70.
191. Roland Barthes, Le Degfr zero de Tecriture (1953; rprt. Paris: Gonthier, 1964), p. 10.
• 192. Raymond Williams, George Oraeil (New York: Viking, 1971), especially pp. 77-78.
193, Christopher Hitchens, Prepared for the Worst (New York: Hill & Wang, 1989),
pp. 78-90.
194, Michael Walzer makes of Camus an exemplary intellectual, precisely because he
was anguished and wavered and opposed terrorism and loved his mother: see W alzer, “Albert
Camus’s Algerian War,” in The Company of Critics: Social Criticism and Political Commitment in
the Twentieth Century (New York: Basic Books, 1988), pp. 136-52.
195, Conor Cruise O’Brien, Albert Camus (New York: Viking, 1970), p. 103.
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349
196. Joseph Conrad, Last Essays , ed. Richard Curie (London: Dent, 1926), pp. 10-17.
197. The later O’Brien, with views noticeably like these and different from the gist of his
book on Camus, has made no secret of his antipathy for the lesser peoples of the “Third
World.” See his extended disagreement with Said in Salmagundi 70-71 (Spring-Summer 1986),
65—8 1.
198. Herbert R. Lottman, Alien Camus: A Biography (New York: Doubleday, 1979). Camus’s
actual behavior in Algeria during the colonial war itself is best chronicled in Yves Carrfore’s
La Guerre d'Algerie 11 : Le Temps des leopards (Paris: Fayard, 1969).
199. “Misire de la Kabylie" (1939), in Camus, Essais (Paris: Gallimard, 1965) pp. 905-38.
200. O’Brien, Camus, pp. 22-18.
201. Camus, Exile and the Kingdom, trans. Justin O’Brien (New Y ork: Knopf, 195B), pp. 32-33.
For a perspicacious reading of Camus in the North African context, see Barbara Harjow,
“The Maghrib and The Stranger," Alif 3 (Spring 1983), 39-55.
202. Camus, Essais, p. 1039.
203. Quoted in Manuela Semidei, “De L'Empire k la decolonisation a travers les manuels
scolaires,” Revue franfaisc de science politique 16, No. 1 (February 1961), 85.
204. Camus, Essais, pp. 1011-13.
105. Semidei, “De L’Empire a la decolonisation,” 75.
206. Jean-Paul Sartre, Literary Essays, trans. Annette Michelson (New York: Philosophical
Library, 1957), p. 32.
207. Emir Abdel Qader, Ecrits spirituals, wans. Michel Chodkiewicz (Paris: Seuil, 1982).
208. Mostafa Lacheraf, L 'Algeria Nation et societe (Paris: Maspdro, 1965). A wonderful
fictional and personal reconstruction of the period is in Assia Djebar’s novel L Amour, la
fantasia (Paris: Jean-Claude Lattds, 1985).
209. Quoted in Abdullah Laroui, The History of the Magrcb: An Interpretive Essay, trans.
Ralph Manheim (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977), p. 301.
210. Lacheraf, L 'Algfrie, p. 92.
Ml. Ibid., p. 93.
212. Theodore Bugeaud, Par I’Epee et par la charrue (Paris: PUF, 194B). Bugeaud’s later
career was equally distinguished: he commanded the troops who fired on the insurgent
crowds on February 23, 1848, and was repaid by Flaubert in L’Edueation sentimentak, where the
unpopular marshal’s portrait is pierced in the stomach during the storming of the Palais
Royal, February 24, 1848.
213. Martine Astier Loutfi, Literature et colonialisme: L i Expansion coloniak vue dans la littcra-
ture romanesque franqaise, iSyr-ipiq (Paris: Mouton, 1971).
214. Melvin Richter, “Tocqueville on Algeria,” Review of Politics 25 (1963), 377,
215. Ibid., 380. For a fuller and more recent account of this material, see Marwan R.
Buheiry, The Formation and Perception of the Modem Arab World, ed. Lawrence 1 . Conrad
(Princeton: Darwin Press, 1989), especially Part 1, “European Perceptions of the Orient,”
which has four essays on nineteenth-century France and Algeria, one of which concerns
Tocqueville and Islam.
216. Laroui, History of the Magreb, p. 305.
217. See Alloula, Colonial Harem.
218. Fanny Colonna and Claude Haim Brahimi, “Du bon usage de la science coloniale,”
in Le Mai de voir (Paris: Union Generale d ’editions, 1976).
219. Albert Sarraut, Grandeur et servitude coloniales (Paris: Editions du Sagittaire, 1931),
p. 113.
220. Georges Hardy, La Politique coloniak et kpartage du terre aux XIXe et XXe sticks (Paris:
Albin Michel, 1937), p. 441.
221. Camus, Theitre, Recits, Nouvelles (Paris: Gallimard, 1962), p. 1210.
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Notes
ISO
222. Ibid., p. 1211.
223. Seeley, Expansion of England, p. 16.
224. Albert O. Hirschman, The Passions and the Interests: Political Arguments for Capitalism
Before Its Triumph (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977), pp. 132-33.
215. Seeley, Expansion of England, p. 193.
216. See Alec G. Hargreaves, The Colonial Experience in french Fiction (London: Macmillan,
1983), p. 31, where this scrange elision is noted and explained interestingly as the result of Loti’s
peculiar psychology and Anglophobia. The formal consequences for Loti’s fiction are not
noted however. For a fuller account, see the unpublished Princeton University dissertation,
Panivong Norindr, Colonialism and Figures of the Exotic in the Work of Pierre Loti (Ann Arbor:
University Microfilms, 1990).
227 Benita Parry, Delusions and Discoveries: Studies on India in the British Imagination,
1S80-1930 (London: Allen Lane, 1972).
CHAPTER THREE
RESISTANCE AND OPPOSITION
1. Andrfi Gide, L'lmmoraliste (Paris: Mercure de France, 1902), pp. 113-14.
2. Gide, The Imnoralist, trans. Richard Howard (New York: Knopf, 1970), pp. 158-59. For
the connection becween Gide and Camus, see Mary Louise Pratt, “Mapping Ideology: Gide,
Camus, and Algeria,” College Literature 8 (1981), 158-74.
3. As used by Christopher Miller, Blank Darkness : Africanist Discourse in French (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1985); a profound philosophical critique of “Africanist” philoso-
phy is found in Paulin J. Hountondji, Sur la “philosophic africaine" (Paris: Maspfero, 1976).
Hountondji gives special priority in his critique to the work of Placide Tempels.
4. V. Y. Mudimbe, The Invention of Africa: Gourfr, Philosophy, and the Order of Knowledge
(Bloomington; Indiana University Press, 1988).
5. Raymond Schwab, The Oriental Renaissance, trans. Gene Patterson-Black and Victor
Reinking (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984).
6. Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Constance Farrington (1961; rprt. New
York: Grove, 1968), p. 314.
7. Basil Davidson, Africa in Modem History: The Search for a New Society (London: Allen
Lane, 1978), pp. 178-80.
8. Jean-Paul Sartre, “Le Colonialisme est un systime," in Situations V: Colonialisme et
nbo-colonialisme (Paris: Gallimard, 1964).
9. Sartre, “Preface" to F anon, Wretched of the Earth, p. 7.
[0. Davidson, Africa in Modem History, p. 20a
11. Fanon, Wretched of the Earth, p. 96.
12. Ibid., p. 102.
13. Sartre, “Preface,” p. 16. •
14. Henri Grimal, Decolonization: The British, French, Dutch and Belgian Empires, tpip-tpfj,
trans. Stephan de Vos (1965; rprt London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1978), p. 9. There is a
massive literature on decolonization of which some noteworthy tides are R. F. Holland,
European Decolonization, lfiS-ipSi An Introductory Survey (London: Macmillan, 1985); Miles
Kahler, Decolonization in Britain and France: The Domestic Consequences of International Relations
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984); Franz Ansprenger, The Dissolution of the Colonial
Empires (1981; rprt. London: Roudedge, 1989); A, N. Porter and A. J. Stockwell, Vol. 1, British
Imperial Policy and Decolonization, tpfr-yi, and Vol. 2, ipp-6q (London: Macmillan, 1987, 1989);
John Strachey, The End of Empire (London: Gollancz, 1959).
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15. Terence Ranger, “Connexions Between Primary Resistance Movements and Modem
Mass Nationalisms in East and Central Africa," pts. 1 and 1, Journal of African History 9, No.
3 (1968), 439. See also Michael Crowder, ed,, West African Resistance: The Military Response to
Colonial Occupation (London: Hutchinson, 1971), and the later chapters (pp. 168 ff.) of S. C.
Malik, cd., Dissent, Protest and Reform in Indian Civilization (Simla: Indian Institute of Advanced
Study, 1977).
16. Michael Adas, Prophets of Rebellion: Millertarian Protest Movements Against the European
Colonial Order (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 1979). For another example, see
Stephen Ellis, The Rising of the Red Shavrls: A Revolt in Madagascar. iSpj-tSpp (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1985).
17. Ranger, “Connexions,” p, 631.
18. Quoted in Afaf Lutfi a!-Sayyid, Egypt and Cromer (New York; Praeger, 1969), p. 68
19. E. M. Forster, A Passage to India (1914; rprt. New York: Harcourt, Brace 8t World, 195a),
p. 311.
10. See the final pages, 314—10, of Benita Parry, Delusions and Discoveries: Studies on India
in the British Imagination, iSSo-ipgo (London: Allen Lane, 1972). By contrast, in The Rhetoric of
English India (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), Sara Suleri reads the relationship
between Aziz and Fielding in psycho-sexual terms.
11. Forster, Passage to India, p. 86.
22. Ibid., p. 136.
23. Ibid., p. 164.
14. Quoted in Francis Hutchins, The Illusion of Permanence: British Imperialism in India
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967), p. 41.
2j. Forster, Passage to India, p. 76.
26. Hutchins, Illusion of Permanence, p. 187.
27. In Syed Hussein Alatas, The Myth of the Lazy Native: A Study of the Image of the Malays,
Filipinos, and Javanese from the Sixteenth to the Twentieth Century and Its Function in the Ideology
of Colonial Capitalism (London: Frank Cass, 1977). See alsojames Scon, Weapons of the Weak-
Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985).
28. Sidney and Beatrice Webb, Indian Diary (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1988), p. 98.
On the oddly insulating atmosphere of colonial life, see Margaret MacMillan, Women of the
Raj (London: Thames & Hudson, 1988).
19. Parry, Delusions and Discoveries, p. 274.
30. Forster, Passage to India, pp. 106-7.
31. Quoted in Anil Seal, The Emergence of Indian Nationalism: Competition and Collaboration
in the Later Nineteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), p. 140.
32. Ibid., p. 141.
33. Ibid., p. 147. Ellipses in the original.
34. Ibid., p. 191.
35. Edward Thompson, The Other Side of the Medal (1926; rprt Westport: Greenwood
Press, 1974), p. 26.
36. Ibid., p. 126. See also Parry’s sensitive account of Thompson in Delusions and Discoveries,
pp. 164-702.
37. Fanon, Wretched of the Earth, p. 106.
38. Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, trans. Charles Lam Markmann (1952; rprt New
York: Grove Press, 1967), p. 222. As a complement to Fanon’s early, psychologizing style, see
Ashis Nandy, The Intimate Enemy: Loss and Recovery of Self Under Colonialism (Delhi: Oxford
University Press, 1983).
39. Raoul Girardet, L 'Idle colonials en France, tfri-ipdz (Paris: La T able Ronde, 1972), p. 136,
40. Ibid., p. 148.
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Notes
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41. Ibid., pp. 159-71. On Griaule see the excellent pages on his career and contribution in
James Clifford, The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth Century Ethnography, Literature, and Art
(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988), pp. 55-91; see also Clifford’s account of
Leiris, pp. 165-74 In both cases, however, Clifford does not connecr his authors with decoloni-
zation, a global political context eminently present in Girardet.
41. Andre Malraux, La Voie rvyale (Paris: Grasset, 1930), p. 168.
43. Paul Mus, Viet-Nam: Sociokgie d'une guerre (Paris: Seuil, 1951), pp. 134-35. Frances
FitzGerald’s prizewinning 1971 book on the American war against Vietnam, Fire in the Lake,
is dedicated to Mus.
44 Davidson, Africa in Modem History, p. 155.
45. Ibid., p. 156.
46. Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, p. 120.
47. Philip D. Curtin, The Image of Africa: British Ideas and Action, ifro-iSjo, 2 vols. (Madison:
University of Wisconsin Press, 1964).
48. Daniel Defen, “The Collection of the World: Accounts of Voyages from the Six-
teenth to the Eighteenth Centuries,” Dialectical Anthropology 7 (1982), 11—20.
49. Pratt, “Mapping Ideology.” See also her remarkable Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and
Transculturation (New York and London: Routledge, 1992).
50. James Joyce, Ulysses ( 1922; rprt. New York: Vintage, 1966), p. 212.
51. James Ngugi, The River Between (London: Heinemann, 1965), p. 1.
52. Tayeb Salih, Season of Migration to the North, trans. Denys Johnson-Davies (London:
Heinemann, 1970), pp. 49-50.
53- Peter Hulme, Colonial Encounters: Europe and the Native Caribbean, t^pt-typy (London:
Methuen, 1986).
54. George Lamming, The Pleasures of Exile (London: Allison & Busby, 1984), p. 107.
55. Ibid., p. 119.
56. Roberto Fernindez Retamar, Caliban and Other Essays, trans. Edward Baker (Min-
neapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989), p. 14. See as a corollary, Thomas Cartelli,
“Prospero in Africa: The Tempest as Colonialist Text and Pretext,” in Shakespeare Reproduced:
The Text in History and Ideology, eds. Jean E. Howard and Marion F. O'Connor (London:
Methuen, 1987), pp. 99-115.
57. Ngugi wa Thiongo, Decolonising the Mind: The Politics of Language in African Literature
(London: James Curry, 1986).
58. Barbara Harlow, Resistance Literature (New York: Methuen, 1987), p. xvi, In this regard
a pioneering work is Chinweizu, The West and the Rest of Us: White Predators, Black Slaves and
the African Elite (New York: Random House, 1975).
59. Aim4 Cisaire, The Collected Poetry, eds. and trans. Clayton Eshleman and Annette
Smith (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), p. 46.
60. Rabindranath Tagore, Nationalism (New York: Macmillan, 1917), p. 19 and passim.
61. W.E.B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk (1903; rprt. New York: New American Library,
15*>9), PP- 44-4 S-
61. Tagore, Nationalism, p. 62.
63. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of National-
ism (London; New Left, 1983), p. 47.
<4. Ibid., p. 52.
65. Ibid., p. 74,
66. Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, The Empire Writes Back: Theory and
Practice in Post-Colonial Literatures (London and New York: Routledge, 1989).
67. Eric Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism Since r/So: Programme, Myth, Reality (Cam-
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Notes
m
bridge. Cambridge University Press, 1990); Ernest Geliner, Nations and Nationalism (Ithaca:
Cornell University Press, 1983).
68. Partha Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse?
(London: Zed, 1986), p. 79. See also Rajat K. Ray, “Three Interpretations of Indian National-
ism,” in Essays in Modem India, ed. B. Q. Nanda (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1980),
pp. 1-41.
69. Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought, p. 100.
70. Ibid., p. i6t.
71. Davidson, Africa in Modem History, especially p. 104. See also General History of Africa
ed. A. Adu Boaher, Vol. 7, Africa Under Colonial Domination, tSSo-ipjj (Berkeley, Paris, and
London: University of California Press, UNESCO, James Currey, 1990), and The Colonial
Moment in Africa: Essays on the Movement of Minds and Materials, igoo-ip+o, ed. Andrew Roberts
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990).
72. Kumari Jayawardena, Feminism and Nationalism in the Third World (London: Zed, 1986),
especially pp. 43—56, 73-108, 137-54 and passim. For emancipatory perspectives on feminism
and imperialism, see also Laura Nader, “Orientalism, Occidentalism and the Control of
Women,” Cultural Dynamics 2, No. 3 (1989), 323-55; Maria Mies, Patriarchy and Accumulation on
a World Scale: Women in the International Division of Labour (London: Zed, 1986). See also Helen
Callaway, Gender, Culture and Empire: European Women in Colonial Nigeria (Utbana: University
of Illinois Press, 1987) and eds. Nupur Chandur and Margaret Strobel, Western Women and
Imperialism: Complicity and Resistance (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992).
73. Angus Calder, Revolutionary Empire: The Rise of the English-Speaking Empires from the
Eighteenth Century to the tySo's (London: Cape, 1981), p. 14 A philosophical and ideological
accompaniment is provided (alas, in a terrible jargon) by Samir Amin, Eurocentrism, trans.
Russell Moore (New York: Monthly Review, 1989). By contrast, a liberationist account — also
on a world scale — is in Jan Nederveen Pietersee, Empire and Emancipation (London: Pluto
Press, 1991).
74. Calder, Revolutionary Empire, p. 36.
75. Ibid., p. 650.
76. Eqbal Ahmad, “The Neo-Fascist State: Notes on the Pathology of Power in the
Third World,” Arab Studies Quarterly 3, No. 2 (Spring 1981), 170-B0.
77. JamesJoyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916; rprt New York: Viking, 1964),
p. 189.
78. Thomas Hodgkin, Nationalism in Colonial Africa (London: Muller, 1956), pp. 93-114
79. Alfred Crosby, Ecological Imperialism: The Biological Expansion of Europe, jmr-tpoo (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 196-216.
80. Neil Smith, Uneven Development: Nature, Capital, and the Production of Space (Oxford:
Blackwell, 1984), p. 102.
81. Ibid., p. 146. Further differentiations of space, with consequences for art and leisure,
occur in landscape and the project for national parks. See W.J.T. Mitchell, “Imperial Land-
scape,” in Landscape and Potter, ed. W.J.T. Mitchell (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1993), and Jane Carruthcrs, “Creating a National Park, 1910 to 1926,” Journal of South African
Studies 15, No. 2 (January 1989), 188—216. In a different sphere compare with Mark Bassin,
“Inventing Siberia: Visions of the Russian East in the Early Nineteenth Century,” American
Historical Review 96, No, 3 (June 1991), 763-94.
82. Mahmoud Darwish, “A Lover from Palestine,” in Splinters of Bone, trans. B. M. Bannani
(Greenfield Center, N.Y.: Greenfield Review Press, 1974), p. 23.
83. Mary Hamer, “Putting Ireland on the Map,” Textual Practice 3, No. 2 (Summer 1989),
184-201.
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Notes
84. Ibid 1 , p. 19/.
85. Seamus Deane, Celtic Revivals: Essays in Modem Irish Literature (London: Faber &
Faber, 1985), p. 38,
86. Ibid., p. 49.
87. Ibid.
88. Wole Soyinka, Myth, Literature and the African World (Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press, 1976), p. 117. See also Mudimbe, Invention of Africa, pp. 85-97.
89. Ibid., pp. 119, 136.
90. F anon, Wretched of the Earth, p. 203.
91. Cesaire, Collected Poetry, p. 72.
92. Ibid., pp. 76 and 77.
93. R. P. Blackmur, Eleven Essays in the European Novel (New York: Harcourt, Brace &
World, 1964), p. 3.
94. Mahmoud Danvish, The Music of Human Flesh, trans. Denys Johnson-Davies (London:
Heinemann, 1980), p. 18.
99. Pablo Neruda, Memoirs, trans. Hardie St. Martin (London: Penguin, 1977), p. 130. This
passage may come as a surprise to anyone who had once been influenced by Conor Cruise
O’Brien’s essay “Passion and Cunning. An Essay on the Politics of W. B. Yeats,” collected in
his Passion and Cunning (London: Weidenfeld Sl Nicolson, 1988). Its claims and information
are inadequate, especially when compared with Elizabeth Cullingford’s Yeats, Ireland and
Fascism (London: Macmillan, 1981); Cullingford also refers to the Neruda passage.
96. W. B. Yeats, Collected Poems (New York: Macmillan, 1959), p. 146.
97. Pablo Neruda, Fully Empowered, trans. Alastair Reid (New York: Farrar, Straus &
Giroux, 1986), p. 131.
98. Yeats, Collected Poetry, p. 193.
99. Fanon, Wretched of the Earth, p. 99.
100. Gary Sick, All Fall Down: America's Tragic Encounter with Iran (New York: Random
House, 1989).
tot. Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart (1999; rprt. New York: Fawcett, 1969).
102. Lawrence J. McCaffrey, “Components of Irish Nationalism,” in Perspectives on Irish
Nationalism, eds. Thomas E. Hachey and Lawrence J. McCaffrey (Lexington: University of
Kentucky Press, 1989), p. 16.
103. Yeats, Collected Poetry, p. 212.
104. Ibid., p. 342.
109. Quoted in Hachey and McCaffrey, Perspectives on Irish Nationalism, p. 117.
106. Ibid., p. 106.
107. See David Lloyd, Nationalism and Minor Literature: James Clarence Mangan and the
Emergence of Irish Cultural Nationalism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987).
108. For a collection of some of their writings see Ireland's Field Day (London: Hutchinson,
1989). This collection includes Paulin, Heaney, Deane, Kearney, and Kiberd. See also W. J.
McCormack, The Battle of the Books (Gigginstown, Ireland: Lilliput Press, 1986).
109. R. P. Blackmur, A Primer of Ignorance, ed. Joseph Frank (New York: Harcourt, Brace
& World, 1967), pp. 21-37.
no. Joseph Leerssen, Mere Irish and Fior-Ghad: Studies in the Idea of Irish Nationality, Its
Development, and Literary Expression Prior to the Nineteenth Century (Amsterdam and Philadelphia:
Benjamins, 1986).
111. Fanon, Wretched of the Earth, p. 210.
111. Ibid., p. 214.
113. Yeats, Collected Poetry, p. 343.
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Notes
V5
114. R. P. Blackmur, Language as Gesture: Essays in Poetry (London: Allen & Unwin, 1954),
p. 118.
115. Ibid., p. 119.
116. Gordon K, Lewis, Slavery, Imperialism, and Freedom (New York: Monthly Review, 1978);
and Robin Blackburn, The Overtime of Colonial Slavery, ryytf-tSfS (London: Verso, 1988).
117. Thomas Hodgkin, “Some African and Third World Theories of Imperialism,” in
Studies in the Theory of Imperialism, eds. Roger Owen and Bob Sutcliffe (London: Longman,
■ 977 ), P- 9 3 -
118. Marcel Merle, ed., L 'Anticolonialisme Europeen de Las Casas a Karl Marx (Paris: Colin,
1969). Also Charles Robert Ageron, LAnticokmialisme en France de iSys a 19)4 (Paris: Presses
Universitaires de France, 1973).
119. Harry Bracken, “Essence, Accident and Race,” Hematbena 116 (Winter 1973), 81-96.
120. Gerard Lederc, Antbropologie et colonialisms: Essai sur I’bistoire de 1 ’africanisme (Paris:
Seuil, 1972).
121. J. A. Hobson, Imperialism: A Study (1902; rprt. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press,
■ 97 2 )> PP- «r* 4 -
122. Another example, caustically analyzed by C.L.R. James, is the case of Wilberforce,
manipulated by Pitt, in the cause of abolition: The Black Jacobins: Toussainr L ’Ouverture and the
San Domingo Revolution (1938; rprt. New York: Vintage, 1963), pp. 33-34.
123. See Noam Chomsky, American Power and the New Mandarins (New York: Pantheon,
1969), pp. 221-366.
124. Girardet, L Idle colonials en France, p. 213.
123. See Hue-Tarn Ho Tai, Radicalism and the Origins of tbe Vietnamese Revolution (Cam-
bridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992), for an excellent account of young Vietnamese
intellectuals in Paris between the wars.
126. This is well described in Janet G. Vaillant, Black, French, and African: A Life of Leopold
Sedar Scngbor (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990), pp. 87-146.
127. Raymond Williams, Culture (London: Fontana, 1981), pp. 83-3.
128. Ali Haroun, La ye Wilaya La Guerre de FLN en France, ipysp-ipfz (Paris: Seuil, 1986).
129. Alatas, Myth of tbe Lazy Native, p. 56.
130. Ibid., p. 96.
131. James, Black Jacobins, p. 198.
132. George Antonius, Tbe Arab Awakening: Tbe Story of tbe Arab National Movement (1938;
rprt Beirut: Librairie du Liban, 1969), pp. 303—6.
133. Albert Hourani, Tbe Emergence of tbe Modem Middle East (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1981), pp. 193-234. See also the Georgetown University doctoral dissertation
of Susan Silsby, Antonius : Palestine, Zionism and British Imperialism, tptp-ipjp (Ann Arbor Uni-
versity Microfilms, 1986), which has an impressive amount of information on Antonius’s life.
134. Paul Buhle, C.L.R. James: Tbe Artist as Revolutionary (London: Verso, 1988), pp. 36-37.
133. “An Audience with C.L.R. James,” Third World Book Review 1, No. 2 (1984), 7.
136. Antonius, Arab Awakening p. 43.
137. Alatas, Myth of tbe Lazy Native, p. 132.
138. Ranajit Guha, A Rule of Property for Bengal: An Essay on tbe Idea of Permanent Settlement
(Paris and The Hague. Mouton, 1963), p. 8.
139. Guha, “On Some Aspects of the Historiography of Colonial India," in Subaltern
Studies I (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1982), pp. 3, 7. For the later development of Guha’s
thought, see his “Dominance Without Hegemony and Its Historiography,” Subaltern Studies
VI (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1986), pp. 210-309.
140. A. L. Tibawi, A Modem History of History, Including Lebanon and Palestine (London:
www.iscalibrary.com
Macmillan, 1969); Albert Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Libera! Age, typS-ipjP (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1983); Hisham Sharabi, Arab Inteikctuals and the Wert: The Forma-
tive Years, ityj-ipij (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1972); Bassam Tibi, Arab
Nationalism: A Critical Analysis, trans. M. F. and Peter Sluglett (New York: St. Martin’s Press,
1990); Mohammad Abed al-Jabry, Naqi al-Aql al-Arabi, a vols. (Beirut: Dar al-Tali‘ah, 1984,
1988).
141. A. A. Duri, The Historical Formation of the Arab Nation: A Study in Identity and Conscious-
ness, trans. Lawrence I. Conrad (1984; London: Croom Helm, 1987).
14a. Walter Rodney, “The African Revolution," in C.L.R. fames: His Life and Work, ed.
Paul Buhle (London: Allison & Busby, 1986), p. 35-.
143. Guha, Rule of Property for Bengal, p. 38.
144. Ibid,, p, da.
143-. Ibid., p. 143.
146. Ibid., p. 9a.
147. Eric Williams, Capitalism and Slavery (New York: Russell & Russell, 1961), p. an.
148. Alatas, Myth of the Lazy Native, p. 200.
149. James, Black Jacobins, p. x.
130. Ibid., p. 391.
131. Quoted in Silsby, Antonias, p. 184.
132. Tariq Ali, The Nebrus and the Gandhis: An Indian Dynasty (London: Pan, 1983).
133. Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia: Reflections from a Damaged Life, trans. EF.N. Jeph-
cott (1931; trans. London: New Left, 1974), p. 102.
134. Conor Cruise O’Brien, “Why the Wailing Ought to Stop,” The Observer, June 3, 1984.
133. Fanon, Wretched of the Earth, p. 77.
13d. See S. P. Mohanty, “Us and Them: On the Philosophical Bases of Political Criti-
cism," Yale Journal of Criticism 2, No. a (1989), 1-31. Three examples of such a method in action
are Timothy Brennan, Salman Rushdie and the Third World: Myths of the Nation (New York: St
Martin’s Press, 1989); Mary Layoun, Travels of a Genre: The Modern Novel and Ideology (Prince-
ton: Princeton University Press, 1990); Rob Nixon, London Calling: V. S. Naipaul, Postcolonial
Mandarin (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992).
137. Embodied in the following remark made by British Foreign Secretary Lord Balfour
in 1919, which has remained generally true so far as Western liberal opinion has been
concerned:
For in Palestine we do not propose even to go through the form of consulting the
wishes of the present inhabitants of the country, though the American Commission has
been going through the form of asking what they are. The four great powers are
committed to Zionism and Zionism, be it right or wrong, good or bad, is rooted in
age-long tradition, in present needs, in future hopes, of far profounder import than the
desires and prejudices of the 700,000 Arabs who now inhabit that ancient land. In my
opinion that is right
Quoted in Christopher Sykes, Crossroads to Israel, lptp-ipqS (ipdy; rprL Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 1973), p. 3.
138. Raphael Patai, The Arab Mind (New York: Scribner’s, 1983); David Pryce-Jones, The
Closed Circle: An Interpretation of the Arabs (New York: Harper & Row, 1989); Bernard K. Lewis,
The Political Language of Islam (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988); Patricia Crone and
Michael Cook, Hagarism: The Making of the Islamic World (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1977).
139. Ronald Robinson, “Non-European Foundations ofEuropean Imperialism: Sketch for
a Theory of Collaboration,” in Owen and Sutcliffe, Studies in the Theory of Imperialism, pp. 118,
120.
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Notes
357
160. Masao Miyoshi, As We Saw Them. The First Japanese Embassy to the United States (i860)
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1979), Ibrahim Abu-Lughod, The Arab Rediscovery of
Europe: A Study in Cultural Encounters (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 196 j).
lit. Homi K. Bhabha, “Signs Taken for Wonders: Questions of Ambivalence and Author-
ity Under a Tree Outside Delhi May 1817,” Critical Inquiry 12, No. 1 (198/), 144—6/.
162. Afghani’s response to Renan is collected in Nikki R. Keddie, An Islamic Response to
Imperialism: Political and Religious Writings of Sayytd Jamal ad- Din "al-Afgbani" (1968; rprt. Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 1983), pp. 181-87.
163. Albert Hourani, “T. E. Lawrence and Louis Massignon,” in Islam in European Thought
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 116-28.
164 Yeats, Collected Poetry, p. 49.
16/. Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought, p. 147.
166. Ibid., p. 169.
167. V. S. Naipaul, Among the Believers: An Islamic Journey (New York; Alfred A. Knopf, 1981);
and Guerrillas (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 197 /). Also his India: A Wounded Civilization (New
York: Vintage, 1977) and An Area of Darkness (New York: Vintage, 1981).
168. Claude Liauzu, Aux origmes des tiers-mondismes: Colonises et anti-colonialistes en France
(tpip-tpjp) (Paris: L'Harmattan, 1982), p. 7.
169. V. S. Naipaul, A Bend in the River (New York: Knopf, 1979), p. 244
170. Davidson, Africa in Modem History, p. 374
171. Fanon, Wretched of the Earth, p. 88.
172. Ibid., p. /i.
173. Ibid., p. 47.
174 Ibid., p. 204
17/. Ibid., p. 10 6. On the subject of “re-introducing mankind into the world” as treated by
Fanon, see the perceptive discussion by Patrick Taylor, The Narrative of Liberation: Perspectives
on Afro-Caribbean Literature, Popular Culture and Politics (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989),
pp. 7-94 On Fanon’s misgiving about national culture, see Irene Gendzier, Frantz Fanon, a
Biography (1973; rprt. New York: Grove Press, 198/), pp. 224-30.
176. Georg Lukacs, History and Class Consciousness: Studies in Marxist Dialectics, trans,
Rodney Livingstone (London: Merlin Press, 1971), p. 199.
177. Fanon, Wretched of the Earth, p. ;i.
178. Ibid., p. ji.
179. Ibid., pp. 88, 93.
180. Ibid., p. 93.
181. Ibid., p. 94
182. Albert Memmi, The Colonizer and the Colonized (19/7; trans. New York: Orion Press,
196/).
183. Fanon, Wretched of the Earth, p. 107.
184 Ibid., p. 124
18/, Ibid., p. 12/.
186. Ibid., p. 131.
187. Ibid., p. 148.
188. Ibid., p. 1/9.
189. Ibid. , p. 203,
190. Ibid., p. 247.
191. Amllcar Cabral, Unity and Struggle: Speeches and Writings, trans. Michael Wolfers (New
York: Monthly Review, 1979), p. 143.
192. Michel Chodkiewicz, “Introduction,” to Emir Abdel Kader, Ecrits spirituals, trans.
Chodkiewicz (Paris: Seuil, 1982), pp. 20-22.
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3J8
Notes
193, Jalal Ali Ahmad, Occidentosis: A Plague from the Wat, trans. R. Campbell (1978; Berkeley:
Mizan Press, 1984).
194. Wole Soyinka, “Triple Tropes of Trickery," Transition, No, 54 (1991), 178-83,
19/. Anwar Abdel-Malek, “Le Project de civilisation: Positions," in let Conditions de
I', independence nationals dam le monde modeme (Paris: Editions Cujas, 1977) pp. 499-509.
196. Abdullah Laroui, The Crisis of the Arab Intellectuals (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1976), p. 100.
197. Chinua Achebe, Hopes and Impediments: Selected Essays (New York: Doubleday, Anchor,
1989), p. 76.
198. The phrase first turns up in Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the
Prison, trans, Alan Sheridan (New York: Pantheon, 1977), p. 16. Later ideas related to this
notion are throughout his The History of Sexuality, Vol. 1, trans. Robert Hurley (New York:
Pantheon, 1978), and in various interviews. It influences Chantal Mouffe and Ernest Laclau,
Hegemony and Socialist Strategy: Towards a Radical Democratic Politics (London: Verso, 1985). See
my critique in “Foucault and the Imagination of Power,” in Foucault: A Critical Reader, ed.
David Hoy (London: Blackwell, 1986), pp. 149-55.
199. I discuss this possibility in “Michel Foucault, 1926-1984,” in After Foucault: Humanistic
Knowledge, Postmodern Challenges, ed. Jonathan Arac (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press,
1988), pp. 8-9.
100. Jiirgen Habermas, Autonomy and Solidarity: Interviews, ed. Peter Dews (London: Verso,
1986), p. 187.
lot. James, Black Jacobins, p. 401.
2oi. Ibid.
203. Ibid., p. 402.
CHAPTER FOUR
FREEDOM FROM DOMINATION IN THE FUTURE
1. Michael Barratt-Brown, After Imperialism (rev. ed. New York: Humanities, 1970), p. viii.
2. Amo J. Mayer, The Persistence of the Old Regime: Europe to the Great War (New York:
Pantheon, 1981). Mayer’s book, which deals with the reproduction of the old order from the
nineteenth to the early twentieth century, should be supplemented by a work that details the
passing on of the old colonial system, and trusteeship, from the British empire to the United
States, during World War Two: William Roger Louis, Imperialism at Bay: The United States and
the Decolonization of the British Empire, ip^i-sp^y (London: Oxford University Press, 1977).
3. North-South: A Program for Survival (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1980). For a bleaker,
and perhaps truer, version of the same reality, see A. Sivananden, “New Circuits of Imperial-
ism,” Race and Class 30, No. 4 (April— June 1989), 1—19.
4. Cheryl Payer, The Debt Trap: The IMF and the Third World (New York: Monthly
Review, 1974).
5. North-South, p. 275.
6. For a useful history of the three worlds classification, see Carl E. Pletsch, “The Three
Worlds, or the Division of Social Scientific Labor, circa 1950-1975,” Comparative Studies in
Society and History 23 (October 1981), 565-90. See also Peter Worlsley’s now classic The Third
World (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1964).
7. Noam Chomsky, Towards a New Cold War Essays on the Current Crisis and How We Got
There (New York: Pantheon, 1982), pp. 84-85.
8. Ronald Steel, Walter Lippmarm and the American Century (Boston: Little, Brown, 1980),
p. 496.
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Notes 3J9
9, See Anders Stephanson, Kennan and the Art of foreign Policy (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard
University Press, 1989), pp. 167, 173.
10. Richard J, Barnet, The Roorr of War (New York: Atheneum, 1972), p. 21. See also Eqbal
Ahmad, “Political Culture and Foreign Policy: Notes on American Interventions in the Third
World,” in For Better or Worse: Tie American Influence in the World, ed. Allen F. Davis (Westport:
Greenwood Press, 1981), pp. 119-31.
n. V. G. Kiernan, America: The Neon Imperialism: From White Settlement to World Hegemony
(London: Zed, 1978), p. 127.
12. Albert K. Weinberg, Manifest Destiny. A Study of Nationalist Expansionism in American
History (Gloucester, Mass.: Smith, 1958). See also Reginald Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny:
The Origin of American Racial Anglo-Saxonim (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1981).
13. Richard Slotkin, Regeneration Through Violence: Tie Mythology of the American Frontier,
tioo-iSdo (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 1973), p. 557. See also its sequel, The Fatal
Environment: The Myth of the Frontier in the Age of Industrialization, tSoo-tSpo (Middletown:
Wesleyan University Press, 1985).
14. C.L.R. James, Mariners, Renegades and Castaways: The Story of Herman Melville and the
World WeLiveln (1953; new ed. London: Allison 8t Busby, 1985), p. 51 and passim. Also Kiernan,
America, pp. 49-50.
15. See J. Michael Dash, Haisi and the United States: National Stereotypes and the Literary
Imagination (London: Macmillan, 1988), pp. 9, 22-25 and passim.
16. Kiernan, America, p. 20S.
17. Ibid., p. 114.
18. Irene Gendzier, Managing Political Change: Social Scientists and the Third World (Boulder
and London: Westview Press, 1985), especially pp. 40-41, 127-47.
19. Many Voices, One World (Paris: UNESCO, 1980).
20. Anthony Smith, The Geopolitics of Information: How Western Culture Dominates the Worid
(New York: Oxford University Press, 1980), p. 178.
21. Herbert I. Schiller, The Mind Managers (Boston: Beacon Press, 1973) and Mass Commu-
nications and American Empire (Boston: Beacon Press, 1969); Armand Mattelart, Transnationals
and the Third World: The Struggle for Culture (South Hadley, Mass.: Bergin & Garvey, 1983).
These are only three works among several produced on the subject by these writers.
22. Munif 's five novels in the series appeared in Arabic between 1984 and 88: two volumes
have appeared in excellent English translations by Peter Theroux, Cities of Sait (New York:
Vintage, 1989) and The Trench (New York: Pantheon, 1991).
23. James A. Field, Jr., America and the Mediterranean World, iyy(-iSSt (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1989), especially Chapters 3, 8, 8, and 11.
24. Richard W. Van Alstyne, The Rising American Empire (New York: Norton, 1974), p- 8.
25. Fouad Ajami, “The Summer of Arab Discontent,” Foreign Affairs 89, No. 5 (Winter
1990-91), 1.
28. One of the leading historians of Islamic art, Oleg Grabar, discusses the city of
Baghdad as one of three foundational monuments of the artistic heritage: The Formation of
Islamic Art (1973; rev - New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987), pp. 84-71.
27. Kiernan, America, pp. 282-83,
28. Arnold Krupat, For Those Who Came After: A Study of Native American Autobiography
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985).
29. Basil Davidson, “On Revolutionary Nationalism: The Legacy of Cabral," Race and
Class 27, No. 3 (Winter 198S), 43.
30. Ibid., 44 Davidson amplifies and develops this theme in his deeply reflective The Black
Maris Burden: Africa and the Curse of the Nation-State (New York: Times, 1992).
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360
Notes
31. Timothy Brennan, “Cosmopolitans and Celebrities,” Race and Class 31, No, 1 (July—
September 1989), 1-19.
32. In Herbert I, Schiller, Culture, Inc: The Corporate Takeover of Public Expression (New
York: Oxford University Press, 1989).
33. Immanuel Wallerstein, Historical Capitalism (London: Verso, 1983), p. 65 and passim. See
also Giovanni Arrighi, Terence K. Hopkins, and Immanuel Wallerstein, Antisystemic Move-
ments (London and New York: Verso, 1989).
34. A very compelling account of this is given by Jonathan R6e in "Intemationality,"
Radical Philosophy, 60 (Spring 1991), 3— u.
3y. Bernard S. Cohn, “Representing Authority in Victorian India,” in The Invention of
Tradition, eds. Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1983), pp. 191-207.
36. Adonis, An Introduction to Arab Poetics, trans. Catherine Cobban (London: Saqi, 1990),
p. 7 6.
37. Seamus Deane, “Heroic Styles: The Tradition of an Idea,” in Ireland’s Field Day
(London: Hutchinson, 1985), p. yd.
38. Ken Ringle, The Washington Post, March 31, 1991. The caricacural attacks on the
exhibition have an excellent antidote in the massive and intellectually compelling catalogue
The West as America Reinterpreting Images of the Frontier, 1820-1970, ed. William H. Truettner
(Washington and London: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991). A sampling of visitors’ re-
sponses to the exhibition is reproduced in American Art y, No. 1 (Summer 1991), j-u.
39. This notion is explored with extraordinary subdety in Homi K. Bhabha, “The
Postcolonial Critic,” Arena 96 (1991), 61-83, an d “DissemiNation: Time, Narrative, and the
Margins of the Modem Nation,” Nation and Narration, ed. Homi K. Bhabha (London and New
York: Routledge, 1990), pp. 191-321.
40. Paul Kennedy, The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers: Economic Change and Military
Conflict from 1700-2000 (New York: Random House, 1987).
41. Joseph S. Nye, Jr., Bound to Lead: The Changing Nature of American Power (1990; rev. ed.
New York: Basic, 1991), p. 260.
42. Ibid., p, 261.
43. The Humanities in American Life: Report of the Commission on the Humanities (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 198a).
44 In Edward W. Said, The World, the Text, and the Critic (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard
University Press, 1983), pp. 226-47.
> 45. Robert A. McCaughey, International Studies and Academic Enterprise: A Chapter in the
Enclosure of American Learning (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984).
46. Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia : Reflections from a Damaged Life, trans. E.F.N. Jeph-
cott (1931; trans. London: New Left, 1974), p. yy.
47. In Edward W. Said, Covering Islam (New York: Pantheon, 1981).
48. Fredric Jameson, “Postmodernism and Consumer Society,” in The Anti-Aesthetic:
Essays on Postmodern Culture, ed. Hal Foster (Port Townsend, Wash.: Bay Press, 1983), pp. 123-23.
49. Eqbal Ahmad, “The Neo-Fascist State: Notes on the Pathology of Power in the
Third World,” Arab Studies Quarterly 3, No. 2 (Spring 1981), 170-80.
yo. Eqbal Ahmad, “From Potato Sack to Potato Mash: The Contemporary Crisis of the
Third World,” Arab Studies Quarterly 2, No. 3 (Summer 1980), 230-32.
yi,: Ibid., p. 231.
yzl Paul Virilio, L Insecurity du territoire (Paris: Stock, 1976), p. 88 if
a. Jean-Franyois Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, trans, Geoff
Bennington and Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984), pp. 37, 46,
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Notes 561
<•4. Masao Miyoshi, Of Center: Power ami Culture Relations Between Japan and the United
States (Cambridge, Mass,: Harvard University Press, 1991), pp. 625-24.
cc. T. S. Eliot, “Little Gidding,” in Collected Poems, 1909-1961 (New York: Harcourt, Brace
& World, 1963), pp. 207-8.
;6. Gilles Deleuze and Fdlix Guattari, Mille Plateaux (Paris: Minuit, 1980), p. yn (transla-
tion mine).
57. Virilio, Linsecuritf du territoire, p. 84.
5*8. Adorno, Minima Moralia , pp. 46-47.
(•9. Ibid., pp. 67-68.
60. Ibid., p. 68.
61. Ibid, p. 81.
62. Ali Shariati, On the Sociology of Itlam: Lecluret by AH Sbariati, trans. Hamid Algar
(Berkeley: Mizan Press, 1979), pp. 92-93.
63. This is described at length in my Beginnings: Intention and Method (1975-; rprt New York:
Columbia University Press, 1985-).
64 John Berger and Jean Mohr, Another Way of Telling (New York: Pantheon, 1982), p. 108.
6y. Immanuel Wallerstein, “Crisis as Transition,” in Samir Amin, Giovanni Arrighi,
Andrd Gunder Frank, and Immanuel Wailerstein, Dynamics of Global Crisis (New York: •
Monthly Review, 1982), p. 30.
66. Hugo of St Victor, Didascalicon, trans. Jerome T aylor (New York: Columbia Univer-
sity Press, 1961), p. tot.
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Index
Abbas, Farhat, 12 6, 272
Abbasid civilization, 297
Abbey Theatre, 232
Abdel-Malek, Anwar, 129, 260
Abdu, Muhammad, 34, 272
Abu Deeb, Kamal, 329
Abu-Lughod, Ibrahim, The Arab Rediscovery
of Europe, 161
Abu-Lughod, Janet, Cairo: soar Years of the
City Victorious, 128-29
Abu-Lughod, Lila, xxiv
Achebe, Chinua, xx, 31, 7 6, 167, 243, 274, 277;
Anthills of the Savannah, 308; Things Fall
Apart, 237
Adas, Michael, 131, 198; Machines as the
Measure of Men: Science, Technology, and
Ideologies of Western Dominance, 108
Aden, 27, 133-
Adonis (Ali Ahmed Said), 313, 329
Adorno, Theodor, 228, 238, 292, 304, 318,
3».333
Afghani, Jamal at-Din al-, 34, 232, 263
Afghanistan, 73, 103
Africa, xi, xiv, xviii, xxi, 3, 8, 14, 17, 19, 22,
33 . 44 . Si, St, 33 . 39 . < 4 . 7 °. 7 *. 73 . 7 d 8'.
82, 99, 101, ioti, 108, 124, 123, 127, 131, 163,
188, 173, 190, 197, 214, 218, 218, 221, 223,
224, 228, 227, 229, 233, 239, 283, 287, 288,
2 * 3 . 3 ° 3 . 3 ° 9 . 3 “. 3 1 3 > 3 1 4 > 3 2 9 ; African
representations of, 38, 211, 229; between
World Wars, 198; literature of, 239;
media representations of, 38; nationalism,
243; oppositional histories of, 240;
philosophy, 193; represented by Conrad,
xx, 22-28, 29-30, 83, 87, 88, 132, 184, 188,
187, 173, 201, 292, 323; represented by
Dickens, 79; represented by Gide, 207;
resistance to imperialism, 198, 233;
resistance stories, 213; stereotypes of, xi;
struggle for territory in, 210; see also
Algeria; Conrad, Joseph; Egypt; Gide,
Andr£; nigritude
Africanism, xi, 38, 32, no, 193
Africans, The, 38-39
Afrocentrism, xx, xxiv, 307, 320, 321
Ahmad, Eqbal, 18, 223, 283, 323
Ahmad, Jalal Ali i-, Occidentosis: A Plague
from the West, 228, 273
Ahmed, Jalal Ali i-, 30
Ahmed, Leila, Women and Gender in Islam.
xxiv
Ahuma, Samuel, 198
Alatas, S. H., The Myth of the Lazy Native,
42, 243-48, 249, 231, 237-38, 239-80
Alexander the Great, 33
Algeria, xix, xxi, a, 13, 27, 38, 83, 97, no,
199, 219, 224, 228, 228, 229-30, 241, 242,
244, 239, 284, 287, 288, 272, 274, 282, 317,
-,26. armed resistance in, xii; between
World Wars, 180; and French artists, xiv;
French domination, 169-83; represented
by Camus, 88, 160, 161; represented by
Gide, 161, 192; represented by Stendhal,
98; War of Independence, 16, 38, 171, 174,
178; see also Camus, Albert
Algerian National Liberation Front, 174,
181, 197, 244, 263, 287, 272
Algiers, University of, 181
Ali, Mohammad, 126
Ali, Muhammad, 262
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3 6 4
Index
Ali, Tariq, 238
AUoula, Malek, The Colonial Harem, in, 183
America, colonies in, xv; English
colonization, 80, 83; representation of, 106
“America as West" exhibition, 314
American Civil War, 126
American frontier, i;8
American Indian, 288, 314
Amin, Idi, xxiv, 22, 219
Amin, Samir, 6
Ampere, Andrd Marie, n8
Anderson, Benedict, 200, 215^-16, 232
Angola, under rule of Portugal, xxii
Annan, [98
Annan, Noel, “Kipling’s Place in the
History of Ideas,” 194
anthropology, 39, 41, 44, 48, Jo, 36, 170, 193;
and colonialism, 132
Antigua, 99, 66, 76, 172, 299; see also Austen,
Jane
Antilles, 84, 90, 226
Antipodes, 163
anti-systemic movements, 311, 334—35
Antonius, George, 34, 243; The Arab
Awakening, 224, 243-46, 248-49, 232-33,
233-38, 260
Apollinaire, Guillaume, 244
Arab Christian Protestants, 39-41
Arab Renaissance, 40
Arab revolt, 231, see also Antonius, George;
Lawrence, T. E.
Arabi, Ibn, 273
Arabism, xxvi, 214, 307; see also nationalism
Arabs, xxiv, 192-93, 197, 199, 217, 247, 237,
263, 301; media representation of, 36-37,
293; see also Gide, Andrd; Islam
Arctic, British exploration of 173
Arendt, Hannah, xviii, 3, 24-23, 116
Argentina, 89, 326
Argeron, Charles-Robert, 279
Arkoun, Muhammad, 329
Arnold, Matthew, 71, toj, 130, 316, 320;
Culture and Anarchy, xiii, 43, 130-31
art, 80
Asad, T alal, Anthropology and the Colonial
Encounter, 41, 132
Asia, 14, 17, 19, 33, 33, 82, 83, 101, 106, 131, 130,
197, 198, 214, 220, 224, 243, 303; repre-
sented by Conrad, xx, 23, 166
Athens, 221
Auerbach, Erich, 44, 318, 333; Mimesis, 43,
47, 316, 333; “Philologie der IVeltliteratur, "
4 S
Austen, Jane, 32, 60, 68, 71, 72, 73, 77, 81, 98,
102, 113, 133, 146, 30 3; Mansfield Park, 39,
62, 66, 76, 79, 84-97, ‘ 7 2 » 2 J9; Persuasion,
66
Australia, xi, xiv, xxii, xxvi, 3, 73, 101, 106,
to8, 134, 198, 214, 22t, 318; as penal colony,
xv; represented by Carter, xv-xvi;
represented by Dickens, xiv-xvi, 63,
66, 74; represented by Hughes, xv
Austro-Hungarian empire, xxii
avant-garde, 244
Baath Party, 3
Baden-Powell, First Baron, 107-08, 137-38
Bagehot, Walter, Physics and Politics, 83
Baghdad, 7, 221, 293, 297, 301
Baldwin, Stanley, 133-34
Balzac, Honord de, 9, 47, 77, 182; La Cousine
Bene, 64, 99; La Peau de chagrin, 99
Bann, Steven, The Clothing of Clio, 117
Barnet, Richard, 283, 287; The Roots of War,
286
Barratt-Brown, Michael, After Imperialism,
282
Barthes, Roland, 266, 328; Le Degrd zero de
lecriture, 172
Batatu, Hanna, 42
Batista y Zaldivar, Fulgencio, 291
Bayreuth Opera House, 117
Beckett, Samuel, 27
Beckford, William, 83
Beethoven, Ludwig van, xxv, 113, 248
Belgium, 10, 68-69, >34, 199, 219; colonialism,
68—69
Benda, Julien, 23, 303
Bengal, 219, 226, 243, 230, 234
Benjamin, Walter, 304, 309
Bennett, William, 321; “To Reclaim a
Heritage,” 320
Behtham, Jeremy, 133
Bentinck, William, 109, 133
Berger, John, 334
Berlin Congress, 210
Bernal, Martin, 110, 118; Black Athena, 13, 312
Berque, Jacques, 129
Bertram, Sir Thomas, 99
Besant, Annie, 218
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Index
1 6 S
Betts, Raymond, 170
Bhabha, Homi, 317
Bible, 320
Blackburn, Robin, The Overthrow of Colonial
Slavery, ijyt-ifyS, 94-97, 240
Blackmur, R. P., 232, 237, 238, 316
Blake, William, 13
Bloom, Allan, 17, 320
Blunt, Wilfred Scawen, 107, 195, 241
Blyden, Edward Wilmor, 243
Boer War, 134
Bokassa, Jean Bedel, 22
Bonanza, 309
Bdne (Annaba), 171
Bopp, Franz, 197
Borges, Jorge Luis, 259, 27 6
Borit Godunov, 112
Bossuet, Jacques Bdnigne, 197
Bourdieu, Pierre, Sociolegie de I’Algerie, 179
Bourne, Randolph, 287
Bowles, Paul, “A Distant Episode,” 178
Bowring, John, 167
Boxer Rebellion, 196
Boy Scouts, 107-08, 137-38
Bracken, Harry, 241
Brahimi, Claude, 18;
Braithwaice, Edward, 313
Brandt, Willy, 283; Brandt report
(North-South: A Program for Survival),
283-84
Brantlinger, Patrick, 84
Brazil, 89, 90, 177-78, 286
Brazza, Pierre Paul Francois Camille
Savorgnan de, 169
Brennan, Timothy, 308
British empire, xii, xvi, xxi, xxii, xxiii, 7-6,
7 . 9 , 10 , is, ' 7 . 2< > 34 . 6 4 , « 9 , 71, 78 - 77 , 89 ,
90, 97, 9 *. 108, ‘ 33 , " 59 , > 7 ‘, ‘87, '98, 199,
207, 219, 249, 270, 271, 274, 279, 260, 26;,
264, 268, 278, 287, 289, 292, 312; repre-
sentations of British Raj, 21; and slavery,
94-98; see also names of countries;
imperialism
Brontfi, Charlotte, 79, 82; Jane Eyre , 82, 88,
74
BrontB, Emily, 82
Brooke, Sir James, no
Bruckner, Pascal, The Tears of the White
Man, 287
Brzezinski, Zbigniew, 293
Buchan, John, 178, 183
Budden, Julian, 113
Bugeaud, Theodore, no, 189, 170, 181-82
Bulwer-Lytton, First Earl of, 207
Bunyan, Paul, Pilgrim's Progress, 138
Burdick, Eugene (and William J. Lederer),
The Ugly American, 290
Burke, Edmund, 9, 83, 133, 223, 240, 273
Burke, Kenneth, 303
Burma, 73, 107, 199, 214, 219, 288
Burnham, James, 292
Bush, George, 38, 131, 293, 294, 298, 300
Butler, Samuel, The Way of AU Flesh, 178, 187
Butt, Isaac, 238
Byron, George Gordon, 117
Byzantium, 221
Cabral, Amflcar, xix, 80, 219, 224, 239, 248,
274, 278-77, 307; “National Liberation
and Culture,” 277; “The Weapons of
Theory,” 277
Cairo, 123, 127-29; Opera House, 117, 118, 117,
126, 128, 129, 297; university, 307
Calder, Angus, 222, 223; Revolutionary Empire,
220
Caldwell, Malcolm, 279
Callas, Maria, 127
Cambodia, 170, 198, 208, 228
Camoens, Luis de, 240
Camp David Accords, 281
Camus, Albert, xxvii, 66, 71, 78, 146, 208,
210, 279; appropriation of Algeria, 184; La
Chute, 174, 178; Cbroniques algericnnes, 176,
1784 L 'Etranger, 67, [80, 161, 174—76, 178,
, 179-80, 181, 184-87; L Exit et le rvyaume,
174, 177, 178; “La Femme adultdre,”
176-78, 183, 184; Noces, 178; and Orwell,
172-73; La Perte, 174, 181; “Le Rendgat,”
178
Canada, xi, xxvi, 7, 73, 107, 198
Canguihelm, Georges, 278
Canny, Nicholas, 80, 220
canon debate, 37
capitalism, 94, 227, 249, 267, 270, 311;
colonial, 246; Islamic roots of in Egypt,
42 .
Carey, Peter, xvi
Caribbean, the, xi, 8, 79, 62, 66, 72, 77, 83,
89, 9 ®, 9 }, 94 , 96, 98, i°L < 9 °. '98, 212-13.
218, 220, 224, 227, 242, 243, 247-48, 272,
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366
Index
Caribbean (continued)
* Sh *56, 1ST, 15% 289, 303, 309, 313, 319;
resistance to colonialism, 193; jw a/re
Cesaire, Aim6; James, C, L. R.
Carlyle, Thomas xiv, 9, 12, 71, 81, loz, 10/,
10 6, 130, 163; The Nigger Question, 101-02;
“Occasional Discourse on the Nigger
Question,” 101; Part and Present, 101
Carpentier, Alejo, 276, 313
Carter, Jimmy, 22, 233
Carter, Paul, The Road to Botany Bay,
xv— xvi, 48
Cary, Joyce, 63
Casement, Roger, 107
Castro, Fidel, 253, 279, 315
Qelik, Zeynep, rn
Central America, xvii, yy, 220, 287, 289, 324
Cervantes, Miguel de, 47
Ctisaire, Aimti, 31, y9, 214— iy, 226, 232, 242,
243, 262—63, 307; Cahier d'un ret cur, 230-31,
269, 280, 281; Discours rur le colonialisms,
197, 266; Une Tempete, 212
Ceylon, 198, 199, 218
Chaliand, Girard, 26y
Champlain, Samuel de, 169
Champollion, Jean Franyois, 119, 121; Lean i
M. Dacier, u8; Prdcis du systbne
hieroglyphique, 118
Changamier, General Nicolas, 182
Char, Reni, 274
Chateaubriand, Franyois de, 60, 63, 197;
Atala, 97; Rene, 97
Chatterjee, Partha, 217, 264, z6y
Chaucer, Geoffrey, Canterbury Tales, 138
Chautemps, Minister, 180
Chesnaux, Jacques, 279
Chile, 226, 233, 287
China, y4, 73, toy, 194, 218, 221, 286, 289, 290,
291, 300, 326; stereotypes of, xi
Chinweizu, yj, 197
Chisholm, George, 47, 48, tty
Chodkiewicz, Michel, i8t
Chomsky, Noam, y, 27 y, 284, 286, 287, 302,
3 ° 3 . 3*4
Christianity, Arab, 39-41
Clark, T. J., in
Clifford, Hugh, 167
Clive, Robert, no, iy3
Clozel, 170
Cochin China, 198
Cockbum, Alexander, 324
Cockbum, Lord Chief Justice, 130
Coetzee,J. M., 239
Cohn, Bernard, An Anthropologist Among the
Historians, 109; “Representing Authority
in Victorian India," 109
Cold War, xvii, xxiii, 47, 242, 282, 283, 28y, '
286, 290, 302, 324, 328
Colebrooke, Henry, iy3
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 81
collaboration, xxiii, 262-63
colonialism, 10, 18, 21, 27, 36, 38, 4y, 196, 203,
207, 2to, 240, 241, 244, 24y, 267, 269, 271,
291, 3163 defined, 9; resistance to, 39, 194,
200, 204, zyy, 272, 273
Colonna, Fanny, 183
Columbia University, 46
Columbus, Christopher, 212
communism, 291, 306, 316; and
decolonization, 27
Communist Party, Third International,
207
comparative literature, origins in empire,
43-61
confinement, 26, 327, 331
Congo, 107
Congress of Ethnographic Sciences, 170
Connolly, James, 224, 236
Conrad, Joseph, xvi, 9, 11, 39, 6o, 63, 64, 67,
68, 74—73, 76, 78, 89, 100, 107, 132, 134, 146,
lyy, 137, 163, 168, 188, 189, 193, 201, zio, 211,
243, 273; “Geography and Some Ex-
plorers,” 173; Heart of Darkness, 22-30, 60,
6y, 67, 68-69, 77. 9?, no. 132, 134, 160, 164,
i6y, 166, 173, 189, 208, 211, 277, 292, 323;
Lord Jim, no, 132, 163-64; Nostromo, xvii,
xviii, xix, xx, 26, 93, 110, 132, i6y, 323;
A Personal Record, 67; Victory, 163-64, 163
consent, manufacture of, 318
Constant de Rebecque, Benjamin, Adolphe,
> 7 5
Constantinople, 7
“contrapuntal analysis,” 18, 32, 43, yi, 66-67,
m, 114, izy, 146, 178, 194, 239, 279, 281, 318,
33 '. 33 «
Cook, Captain James, xv
Cook, Michael, Hagarism, 260
Cooper, James Fenimore, 63; The Deerslayer,
138
Coppola, Francis Ford, Apocalypse None, xix
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Index
567
Cornwallis, Lord, 240
Cony, John, 38-39
Costa-Gavras, Constantin, Missing, xix
Cowper, William, 240
Creuzer, m
Cri des negres, 142
Croce, Benedetto, 46, 49
Cromer, Lord, 141, 167, 169, 199; Ancient and
Modem Imperialism, 174
Crone, Patricia, 260
Crosby, Alfred, 109; Ecological Imperialism,
22J
Crusades, 16, 77
Cuba, xix, 27, 224, 264, 286, 287, 291
cultural imperialism, 291
culture, defined, xii, xiii, xiv; and economics,
200; and extension of empire, 206; hetero-
geneity of, iy— 16, 162, 217; and politics, 200;
and representation, 46-47, 66, too
Cumberland, William Augustus, Duke of,
94
Curtin, Philip, The Image of Africa, 99, 210
Curtius, Ernst Robert, 44, 4/, 47
Cuvier, Georges, 134
Cyprus, 296
Dallas, 291
Damascus, 297
Dante Alighieri, xiii, 4 4, [89, 297; Divine
Comedy, 47
Danton, Georges Jacques, 246
Darwin, Charles, 100, 134
Darwish, Mahmoud, 226, 234, 306; “The
Rose and The Dictionary,” 232
Dash, J, Michael, Haiti and the United States:
National Stereotypes and the Literary
Imagination, 289
Daudet, Alphonse, 71; Tartarin de Tarascon,
181, 183
Daumier, Honori, 134
Davidson, Basil, xx, 99-100, 196, 209-10, 239,
240, 261, 264, 267, 277, 279, 307-08; Africa
in Modem History, 217
Davis, L. E. (and R. A. Huttenback),
Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire, 6
Davis, Lennard, 70
Day, Clive, 167
Deane, Seamus, 220, 228, 231, 236, 313—143
Celtic Revivals, 227
v de Brosses, 83
decolonization, xii, xiii, xvi, xix, xxiii, 16,
21, 27, 34, 68, 78, 134, 134, 161, 172, 194, 198,
213, 219, 220, 228, 230, 232, 236, 237-38, 241,
H3. 244. 240, 244, 246, 249, 272, 276, 282,
290, 292, 307, 326, 331; narrative of, 234,
272; politics of, 247; and reclaiming
geographical territory, 209
Defert, Daniel, 210
Defoe, Daniel, 42, 64, 74, 77; Captain
Singleton, 70; AioU Flanders , 70; Robinson
Crusoe, xii, 70
de Gaulle, Charles, 263
Delacroix, Eugene, 9, 110
Delafosse, Maurice, 207
Delavigne, Robert (and Charles Andri
Julien), Let Constructeurs de la France
d'outre-mer, 169
Deleuze, Gilles, 278, 331-32
Delhi, Imperial Assemblage in, 16
DeLillo, Don, 324
dependence, dynamic of, 263-64, 266, 283
Derdour, H’sen, 171
Derrida, Jacques, 278, 304
De Sanctis, Francesco, 44, 46
Description de lEgypte, 33-34, 99, 118, 120-23
Dessalines, Jean Jacques, 248
Dickens, Charles, 13, 47, 60, 66, 71, 74, 77,
79, 82, 98, 104, 132, 134, 147, 297, 304, 318;
Bleak House, 79; David Copperfeld, xv;
Dombey and Son, 13-14, 63, 76; Great
Expectations, xiv, xv, xvi, xx, 6, 62-63, 74,
93, 314; Hard Times, 74
Diderot, Denis, 240, 246, 280
Dilke, Sir Charles Wentworth, 110, 166
Dilthey, Wilhelm, 318
Din, Khayr al-, 242
Dinesen, Isak, 193
Diop, Anta, 239
discrepant experiences, 31-43
Disraeli, Benjamin, Crystal Palace speech,
72; Tancred, 63
Doctorow, E. L., 324
Douin, Georges, Histoire du rigne du Khedive
Ismail, 127
Dower, John, 290
Doyle, Arthur Conan, 63, 74, 78, 142, 144
Doyle, Michael, 9
Drake, Sir Francis, 164
Draneht Bey, 116, 119, 122, 127
Draper, Theodore, 296
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Index
D'Souza, Dinesh, 321
Du Bois, W. E. B,, 224, 245, 255, 264; The
Souls of Black Folk, 215
du Lode, Camille, 115, 116
Duncan, Jonathan, 173
Dupleix, Joseph Francois, no
Duri, A. A., Tit Historical Formation of the
Arai Nation, 252
Durkheim, Emile, 154
Dutt, Tora, 218
Duvalier, Jean-Claude, 256
Dynasty, 291
East Africa, 125, 198, 199, 284
East India Company, 148-47
East Indies, 199
ecology, 20, 22j, 350
education, xxvi, 20, 330; Arab-Islamic, 287;
colonial, 42, 101, 109, 223, 284; French,
180; liberal, 37; national systems of, 331;
United States, 320; set also universities
Edwardes, Michael, The Sabibs and the
Lotus, 151
Egypt- i«s. 42, 83, 73, 98, 107, 198, 199, 214, 21 j,
218, 248, 2J2, 282, 288, 287, 298, 299, 300,
joy, 325; in Aida, 111-32; conquest of, 107;
General Charles Gordon, 110; invasion
of, 33; Napoleon’s expedition and survey,
33-37; nationalism, 124; Wafd Party, 224
Egyptology, 117-19, 121, 124
Eldridge, C. C., England's Mission, 8
Eliot, George, 71, 72, 77, 107, 137, 178, 194;
Daniel Deronda, 83; Middlemarch, 145-44,
187
Eliot, T. S., 188, 232, 338; “Dry Salvages,”
281; “Incarnation," 281; “Little Gidding,"
331; “Tradition and the Individual
Talent,” 4-7, [2, 77, 191; Tit Waste Land,
189
Elliot, Sir H. M., 171
Elphinstone, Mountstuart, 173
El Salvador, 288, 287
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 197
empire, and academic disciplines, 70-71, 171,
197; and aesthetics, 8, 12-14, 2 4> 7>- *°> 1U >
130, 181; cultural argument for, 187; and
cultural identity, 8r, 108, 188, 222, 284;
cultural integrity of, xxi-xxii, 97-110;
discrepancy in experience of, 31-43;
dissolution of and emergence of
modernism, 188-90; and geography, 8-14,
20, 48, 70, 71, 78, 82, ,90-91, 108, 179, 180,
189, 183—84; and history, 20-21, 188;
integrative power of, 8; media
representations of, 21, 27; and narrative,
xii, 23, 28, 99, 132, 137, 174-77, and
nineteenth-century culture, 8, 8, 9, 20,
83-84, 88, 78, 81, 107, 182, 183, 284; and the
novel, xii, 8, 14, 82-80, 81, 97, 201, 207;
and representation, 108; resistance to, xii,
xiii, 10, 30, 71, 88, 82, 128, 180, 188, 198, 197,
199, 200, 201, 203, 220, 222, 239, 240, 243,
274, 278, 279, 277, 288; rhetoric of, xi,
xvii, 9, 27, 107, 178, 279, 289; set also
colonialism; imperialism; narrative;
rhetoric of blame
enclosure laws, 83
Engels, Friedrich, 188
England, xi, 11, 14, 43, 44, 47, 72, 77, 78, 83,
93, 98, m2, 107, 118, 134, 228, 232, 279
Enlightenment, the, xv, 44, 240-41, 248, 320
Enzenberger, 292
essentialism, 18, 22, 37, 72, 193, 228-29, *8i,
307, 310; theories of, 31-32
Ethiopia, 73, 128
ethnography, 31, 72, 74, 77, 101, 108, 172, 191,
210
Etienne, Eugene, 189
Eurocentrism, xx, 28, 30, 44, 222, 281, 277,
311, 320, 330 '
exile, xxvi-xxvii, 317, 330, 334, 338
exploration narrative, xii, 210-12
Eyre, E.J., 110, 130, 183
Fabian, Johannes, 108, 281; language and
Colonial Power, 109-10; Tittle and the Other,
4>
Fagan, Brian, 120
Faidherbe, Louis L8on C8sar, 170
Faiz, Fail Ahmad, 18, 228, 243
Falk, Richard, 287
Falklands War, 21
Fanon, Frantz, xix, xxvii, 12, 19, 39, 79, 80,
110, 148, 162, 187, 197, 207, 214, 219, 223, 229,
2 ?7-?8> 2 4*. 2 44- 2 4». 2 49- 2 D, 2 J».
279, 299, 307; theory of violence, 287-71;
The Wretched of the Earth, 197, 198, 210,
287-78, 234
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369
fascism, 43, ;i 6
Faysal, King, 248
feminism, xxiv, 178, 310, 321; and Middle
Eastern Studies, xxiv
Ferguson, Samuel, 23d
Fergusson, Francis, 43-44
Ferry, Jules, 110, 170
Fdtis, Franfois-Joseph, Histoire generate de la
musique depuis let temps anciens a nos jours,
121-22; Resume philosophique de I'bistoire de
la musique, 121
Fevre, Lucien, 47; La Terre el 1 'evolution
humaine, 48
Field Day Company, 23d, 313
Fieldhouse, D. K., d, 11
Fielding, Henry, Tom Jones, 70
Fielding, Vernon, iyy
Field, James, America and the Mediterranean
World, 294
Filippi, 122-23
Fiske, John, 288
Flanagan, Thomas, 23d
Flaubert, Gustave, 9, y, do, 68, 77, 78,
[OO, ldo, <d3, idd; Madame Bovary, 183;
Sentimental Education, iy6, 187; La Tentation
de Saint Antoine, id;
Florida, 289
Fodeba, Keita, 274
Forster, E. M., 63, dy, 188, 207, 208; Howards
End, dy, 93; A Passage to India, 11, 75, lyi,
189, 200-od
Forrunato, Guistino, 49
Foucault, Michel, 2d, 41, 110, 243, 278, 304,
327, 328; Discipline and Punish, 184
Fouillde, Alfred Jules Emile, 170
Fourier, Jean-Baptiste-Joseph, introduction
to Description de I'Egypre, 33-35
France, xii, xxi, 43, 44, 54, yy, 67, 71, 74, 77,
78, 8d, 87, 90, 94, iod, 107, ud, 127, 134, idi,
173, 174, 189, 219, 22d, 228, 244, 2yd, 259,
2do, 263, 284, 2dy, 2dd, 271, 279, 282, 291,
300; anti-imperialist policy, 241, 242;
Declarations of the Rights of Man, 247;
Egyptian survey, 33-35; Franco-Prussian
War, nd, 189; imperial coherence, xxii,
xxiii; as imperial power, y— 6, 7, 9, io, u,
12, 13, 2d, 83, 87, 83, 189, 192, 193, 198-99,
207, 209, 272, 289, 292; imperial Union,
84; nineteenth-century culture and
novel of empire, 97-100; Revolution,
83, 170, 248, 250, 251, 280; under Nazi
occupation, 174; see also Algeria;
Napoleon; names of authors
Francis, Philip, 245, 250, 253, 254
Frank, Andre Gunder, 8
Frankfurt School, 278
French Congo, 189
Freud, Sigmund, 197, 288, 268—89, —8
Friedman, Thomas, Front Beirut to Jerusalem,
261
Friel, Brian, 31, 236; Translations, 226
Frobenius, Leo, 193, 208
Froude, James Anthony, no, 166
Frye, Northrop, 118
Fuentes, Carlos, 243, 278, 329
Fukuyama, Francis, 259, 320
fundamentalism, xiii, 309-10, 325, 327
Gabon, 171
Gaelicism, 227
Gallagher, John, 73, 93
Gallieni, Joseph Simon, 167, 169, 170
Gandhi, Mohandas, 146, 217, 264, 278
Garcia Mirquez, Gabriel, xx, 243, 276, 298,
Garvey, Marcus, 224, 228, 264
Gaskell, Elizabeth Cleghorn, 72, 82
Gellner, Ernest, 216
Gendzier, Irene, Managing Political Change,
290
Genet, Jean, xx, 185, 317
geography, 169-70, 181, 254; and culture,
1— 14, 47-48, 78, 336; and history, 7; and
identity, 52-53, 330; and literary history,
48; and narrative, 58, 59, 84, 8y, 98, 159,
160, 191, 279; and social history, 49; see
also empire; Gramsci, Antonio
George, Katherine, id8
George V, King, 134
Germany, 10, 43, 44, yy, nd, 118, 134, 199, 219,
282, 300; empire, 86; and Jewish tradition,
44
Gdrfime, Jean Ldon, 100, 110
Ghana, 253
Ghislanzoni, Antonio, 116
Ghorbal, 126
Gibbon, Edward, 83
Gibran, Kahlil, 294
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37 °
Index
Giddings, F. H., 107
Gide, Andr6, xvi, 71, 78, 156, 208, 210, 279;
L'lmmoraliste, 161, 183, 192-93, 207; Retour du
Tchad, 207; Voyage au Congo, 207
Giosa, Nicola de, 115
Giran, 170
Girardet, Raoul, 97-98, 169, 207, 242; L'Idie
coloniale en France, 241
Gissing, George, 156, 187
Gladstone, William Ewart, 205-0 6
Glaspie, April, 301
Gobetti, Piero, 49-50
Gobineau, Joseph Arthur, Compte de, 108
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 45, 46, 195
Goldsmith, Oliver, 56, 223
Gorbachev, Mikhail, 55, 328-29
Gordimer, Nadine, 239
Gordon, General Charles, no
Gould, Stephen Jay, 100
Gouldner, Alvin, 321
Gounod, Charles Franyois, 115
Government of India, 147
Goytisolo, Juan, xx
Gramsci, Antonio, 31, 195, 236-37, 249, 266;
The Prison Notebooks, 49; Quademi, 49-50;
“Some Aspects of the Southern Ques-
tion,” 48-49, 51
Gran, Peter, 42, 260
Grattan, Henry, 222
Great Britain, 134, 174, 201, 247, 279, 282,
286, 300, 302, 317; anti-imperialist policy,
241, 242; foreign policy, 72-^74, 296; see
also British empire; England; Ireland
Greece, ancient, 15—16, 194, 320
Greek Orthodox Church, 40
Green, Martin, 60, 64
Greene, Graham, xviii; The Quiet American,
xix, 9, 290
Grenada, 287
Griaule, Marcel, 207
Grimal, Henri, 198, 199
Groupe Coloniale, 169
Guadeloupe, 198
Guatemala, 287
Guattari, F 61 ix, 331-32
Guha, Ranajit, 275; A Rule of Property for
Bengal, 109, 245—46, 249-51, 253-56, 258
Guiana, 198, 286
Guinea, 197, 219, 224, 264
Guinea-Bissau, 268
Gulf War, xxiii, 4-5, 20, 36-37, 55, 131, 261,
286, 292, 293, 295, 298, 300, 302, 319, 324,
VS
Habermas, Jurgen, 278
Haggard, Rider, 63, 74, 78, 155, 156, 163;
She, 187
Haiti, 90, 214, 256, 266, 279, 289
Halhed, Nathaniel, 153
Hall, Stuart, 261, 278
Hamer, Mary, 226
Hardy, Georges, 47; director of Ecole
Coloniale, 184; La Polirit/ue coloniale et le
partage du tern aux X/Xe et XXe siicles,
184; rector of Academy of Algiers, 184
Hardy, Thomas, 75, 132, 133; Jude the
Obscure, 156-57, 187
Harlem Renaissance, 242, 243
Harlow, Barbara, Resistance Literature, 213,
*V
Harmand, Jules, 17, no, 271; principle of
domination, 170
Harris, Wilson, 257, 313
Hastings, Warren, no, 153, 253
Hawaii, 289
Head, Bessie, 239
Heaney, Seamus, 236
Hegel, G. W. F., 197, 210, 225, 245, 278;
views of Orient and Africa, 168
Henry II, 220
Henty, G. A., 155
Herder, Johann Gottfried von, 44
Herodotus, 123
Hersh, Seymour, 324
Hibbert, Christopher, The Great Mutiny,
146
Hilferding, 5
Hirschman, Albert 0 ., 188; The Passions and
the Interests, 186-87
historical narrative, 79
history, xxvi, 35, 38, 42, 48, 52, 170, [91;
experience of, xxii, xxv, 14, 31, 38, 44;
and the novel, 93, 162, 204; and
representation, 99; Third World, 21
Hitchens, Christopher, 172, 324
Hobsbawm, Eric, 7, 216, 224; (and Terence
Ranger), The Invention of Tradition, 15—16,
32, 109
Hobson, J. A., 5, 12, 71, 83, 107, 166, 187, 221;
Imperialism, 241
www.iscalibrary.com
Index
37i
Ho Chi Minh, 196
Hodgkin, Thomas, 114, 240, 261, 262,
277, 279; Nationalism in Colonial Africa,
131
Hofstadter, Richard, 285
Holland, 10, 55, 134, 199, 219, 242
Hollywood, 309
Holy Roman Empire, 45
Homer, 33, 47, 320; Odyssey, 189
Hong Kong, 6, 73, 198
Hook, Sidney, 274
Hopkins, Gerard Manley, “Pied Beauty,”
33 '
Hounrondjii, Paulin, 239
Hourani, Albert, 247, 252, 263
House, Karen Elliot, 292-93
Hugh of St. Victor, 335-36
Hughes, Langston, 243
Hughes, Robert, 314; The Fasal Shore, xv,
xvi
Hugo, Victor, “Lui,” 98
Hulme, Peter, Colonial Encounsers, 83,
212
Humanities in American Life, The, '^lo
Humbert, Jean, 119
Humboldt, Wilhelm von, 46, 108
Hume, David, 221
Huntington, 290
Husayni, Haj Amin al-, 248
Hussein, Saddam, xxi, xxiv, 37, 130, 219,
292, 294, 296, 297, 300, 301, 315, 328;
represented as Arab Hitler, 295, 304
Hussein, Sherif, 247, 248
Hutchins, Francis, 203; The Illusion of
Permanence: British Imperialism in India,
149
Huttenback, R. A. (and L. E. Davis),
Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire, 6
Huxley, Aldous, 130, 292
hybridity, xiii, 317, 335
Hyde Park Riots, 130
identity, 275, 312, 315; American, xxv, xxvi,
52-53, 320; Arab, xxv, xxvi; Arab-Islamic,
252; Arab Protestant, 40; British, 52, 72,
105; Caribbean, 257; and culture, xii, xiii,
xxv, 52, 222; and empire, 336; French,
52-53, 171; Irish, 236; and language, 213,
215; loss of, 178; and mass media, 37; and
nationalism, 299; politics of, 314
Illusions perdues, 6
I Love Lucy, 309
“imperialism,” as act of geographical
violence, 225; as educational movement,
223; defined, 5-12, 51, 162; high, 7, 36, 168,
221; modern, xx, 5-6, 11, 35, 221
Inden, Ronald, Imagining India, 110
India, xi, xiv, xx, xxi, xxiv, 6, 9, n, 14, 15,
16, 17, 26, 27, 34-35, 36, 51, 64, 70, 72, 73,
77. 93. 97. 98, 99, i°8, hi, "8, 125, 163, 165,
168, 176, 190, 194, 199, 214, 217, 218, 219,
220, 228, 242, 249, 250, 251, 254, 259, 264,
267, 276, 282, 312, 313, 317, 318, 322, 323, 329;
Act of Permanent Settlement, 245,
250; Anglo-French competition in, 83;
and British artists, xiv, 21, 81; Congress
Party, 199, 2243 education, 42, 109;
independence and partition, 135; media
representation of, 28; national epics, 195;
nationalism, 203-06, 215, 224; oppositional
histories of, 240; represented by Bronte,
66, 74; represented by Forster, 75, 189,
200-06; represented by Kipling, 32, 75,
78, 132-62, 167, 2043 represented by
Naipaul, 227; represented by Thackeray,
74, 76; resistance to empire, 201, 203;
stereotypes of, xi; see also Chatterjee,
Partha; Guha, Ranajir, Kipling, Rudyard;
Naipaul, V. S.
Indian Mutiny, 105, 146-48, 206; see also
Indian Rebellion
Indian National Congress, 135
Indian Rebellion, 1857, 96, 135, 146
Indochina, 27, 170, 198, 208-09, 242, 290
Indonesia, 199, 218, 230, 249, 255, 287; armed
resistance in, xii
influence, defined, 191
Inkle, 212
interests, doctrine of, 186-87, *88
International Commission for the Study of
Communication Problems (Many Voices,
One World), 291
International Congo Association, 165
International Congress of Colonial
Sociology, 170
Iran, xix, 21, 27, 230, 275, 287, 310, 322, 324,
326; hostage crisis, 21, 235; Islamic
Revolution, 30, 261, 277, 306, 334; Shah of,
300
Iran-Iraq War, 296
www.iscalibrary.com
Index
W
Iraq, xix, 4-3, 20, 56-37, 131, 232, 27 3, 286,
287, 289, 292, 293, 295, 296, 297, 198. *99.
3 01 , 3°r°4
Ireland, xi, xv, 32, 72, 73, 80, 83, 84, 98, iod,
130, 134, 198, 228, 313; Act of Union, 226;
armed resistance in, xii; Easter uprising,
227, Home Rule movement, 236;
nationalism, 224, 227, 236; Ordnance
Survey ofy 226; represented by Spenser,
7, 222, 236; represented by Yeats, id,
220-38, 284; Sinn Fein Part)', 224;
stereotypes ofj xi
Irish Revival, 224
Iriye, Akiri, 290
Islam, xxiv, 34, 37, 39, 194, 219, 248, 292, 160,
263, 300, 303-, 308, 307, 327; American
representations of, 297; fundamentalism,
34, 214, 230, 308; Orientalist description
of, xi; Revolution, 30
Islamocentrism, xx, xxiv
Ismail, Khedive, 113, 119, 120, 123-29
Israel, 38, 243, 2do, 161, 287, 298, 299, 301, 308
Istanbul, xxii, 47, nd
Iraly, 10, 44, 49-30, 114, nd, 122, 134, 200,
282, 323
Jabarti, ’Abd al-Rahman al-, 232, 273; Aja’ib
al-Ashar, 33-33
Jabry, Mohammad Abed al-, 232
Jackson, Andrew, 288
Jamaica, 32, 103, 130; stereotypes of, xi
James, C. L. R., xix, xxv, 34, 94, 219, 242,
243, 239, 279, 280, 281, 288, 313, 328; The
Black Jacobins , 243-48, 231-32, 236-di, 277;
History of Negro Revolt, 233, 233, Nkrumah
and the Ghana Revolution, 233
James, Henry, 73, 7 6, 134, 137; The Portrait of
a Lady, 63, 143-44, 13d, 187
James, William, 287
Jameson, Fredric, 304, 323; The Political
Unconscious, 73
Japan, d, 194, 201, 218, 221, 290, 291, 308, 329
Jayawardena, Kumari, Feminism and
Nationalism in the Third World, 218
Jefferson, Thomas, 320
Jewel in the Crown, The, 21
Jinnah, Muhammad Ali, 199
Johnson, Lyndon Baines, 28d
Johnson, Samuel, 193, 240
Jones, Gareth Stedman, d4
Jones, Sir William, 83, 133, 133
Jonson, Ben, 82
Jordan, 3d
Joy, G. W, no
Joyce, James, 137, 223-24; A Portrait of the
Artist as a Young Man, 224; Ulysses, 188,
189, 211
Julien, Charles Andr£, 207; (and Robert
Delavigne), Let Constructeurs de la France
d'outre-mer, 189
Jung, Carl, 232
Kader, Emir Abdel, 181, 193, 197, 273
Kafka, Franz, 239
Kant, Immanuel, 38
Kartini, Raden, 218
Karve, D. K, 218
Kautsky, 3
Keats, John, 129
Kedourie, Elie, 2id
Kennan, George, 289
Kennedy, Paul, 319; The Rice and Fall of the
Great Powers, 3
Kenya, 18, 229, 230, 2dd, 274
Kerman, Joseph, Opera as Drama, 113
Keman, Alvin, 321
Khalidi, Rashid al-, 2do
Khomeini, Ayatollah, 17, 297, 308, 327, 328
Khoury, Bishara al-, 198
Khoury, Elias, 329
Kiberd, Declan, 23d
Kidd, Benjamin, 100
Kieman, V. G., 8, do, 80, 82, 103, 287, 288,
289, 301; The Lords if Human Kind, 13, 131;
Marxism and Imperialism, 6 ;
Kimball, Roger, 321
Kincaid, Jamaica, 317
Kingsley, Charles, Westward Hoi, 6 i
Kingsley, Mary, 241
Kinkead-Weekes, Mark, 144
Kinney, Leila, in
Kipling, Lockwood, 133
Kipling, Rudyard, xvi, xxi, 9, 39, do, d3, 64,
66 , 74-73, 82, 89, 100, no, 183, 187, 187, 197,
204, 207; awarded Nobel Prize, 133;
Captains Courageous, 132; as journalist, 133;
The Jungle Book, 132; Kim, xxi, 11, 32, 3d,
6p, 61, is, 78, 83, 132-62, 188; The Light
That Failed, 132; "Lisbeth,” 140; Something
of Myself 133; Stalky and Co., 132
www.iscalibrary.com
Index
Kirkpatrick, Jeane, 27
Kissinger, Henry, 288
Knox, Robert, 134
Kolko, Gabriel, y, 287
Koran, 34, 267, 313
Korea, 8, 290, 291, 328
Kotzebue, August von, Lavers' Vows,
88
Krupat, Arnold, 304
Kundera, Milan, 329
Kuwait, y, 20, 38, 131, 293, 298, 299, 301; see
also Gulf War
Labourer, 207
Lacheraf, Mostafa, 181-82
Lagerlof, Selma, 233
La Guma, Alex, 239
Lamartine, Alphonse de, 83, toy
Lamming, George, 213, 257, 278, 313
Landes, David, Banters and Pastas, 11 8; The
Unbound Pomctbeus, 9-10
Lane, E. W., 122
Lang, Jacques, 291
Langland, William, 82
language, 224, 227; African, 213; Arabic, 211,
248, 287; and colonialism, 271; English,
102, 303—08, 311; French, 311; and identity,
213, 2iy; mutilation of, 178; and national
culture, 2iy, of power, 279; theories of,
278
Laos, 170, 198
Laqueur, Walter, 281
La Rouci&re, Admiral, 189
Laroui, Abdullah, 183, 277
La Scala, 117
Las Casas, Bartolomb de, 240
Lasswell, 290
Latin America, xxii, y, 8, 19, yy, 82, iy2, 212,
213-14, 218, 223, 224, 233, 2 7 y, 302, 323;
represented by Conrad, xvii-xx, ty, i8y,
188
Lawrence, D, H., 288
Lawrence, T. E., 83, 188, 192, 208, 283; The
Seven Pillars of Wisdom , no, lyy, 180-81,
189, 2yi
Lean, David, A Passage to India, 21
Lebanon, xx, 39, 198, 281, 298; Civil War,
m, 3°9
Le Bon, Constave, 170
Lebow, R, N,, 220
m
Lederer, William J. (and Eugene Burdick),
The Ugly American, 290
Leerssen, Joseph, 220; Mere Irish and
Fior-Gbael, 237
Leeward Islands, 90
Lefeber, W alter, y
Leiris, Michel, 207
Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich, y, 221
Le Noury, 189
Leopold, King, i8y-88
Lemer, 290
Leroy-Beaulieu, Paul, 47, 107, no, 170, 188,
* 7 >
Lesseps, Ferdinand de, 120
Levant, the, 83
Levin, Harry, 73
Levi- Strauss, Claude, iya, 277
Lewis, Anthony, 292-93
Lewis, Bernard, 37-38, 281; The Political
Language of Islam, 280
Lewis, Gordon K., 281; Slavery, Imperialism,
and Freedom, 8y, 78, 240
Liauzu, Claude, Aux Origines des
tiers-mondismes: Colonists et anti-colonialistes
en France (tptp-tpgp), 28y
liberation and liberation movements, 18, 27,
193 . * 7 *“ 79 . j8 '. 3 ° 4 > 3 °S, 33 z » 334 ; politics
of, 28
Libya, 38, 27y, 287, 289, 308, 327
Limerick, Patricia, 83
Lindenberger, Herbert, Opera: The
Extravagant Art, m
literature, 42, 49, 47, y2; comparative, 43-81;
European, 48; United States, 48; world,
43-48
Livingstone, David, 187
London, xiv,' xvi, ay, 29, 40, 72, 79, 90, 242,
144
Lori, Pierre, xvii, 71, 78, 182; L inde (sans les
Anglais), 189; Le Roman d'un Spabi, 187
Lottman, Herbert, 174
Loutfi, Martine, Literature et colonialismc, 182
Louvre, 120
Lowe, Lisa, Critical Terrains, xxiv
Lugard, Frederick, 24
Lukacs, Georg, 77-78, 84, 98, 187, 22y, 271,
273, 304; History and Class Consciousness,
49, 270; The Theory of the Novel, tp 6 -pj,
• S 9
Luxemburg, Rosa, y, 221
www.iscalibrary.com
374
Index
Lyautey, Hubert, no, 167, 169, 70
Lycurgus, 33
Lyotard, Jean-Fran^ois, 26, 57, 251, 328
Lyrton, Lord, 1 6
Macaulay, Thomas Babington, 78, 102, 109,
133, 196; Minute on Indian Education, 99
MacDonald, Ramsay, 241
MacKenzie, John M., Propaganda and
Empire, i$o
Mackinder, Halford, 47, 225; lectures on
imperialism, 23
MacNeil /L ebrer New s Hour, 293
Madagascar, 169, 170, 171, 198, 214
Magdoff, y
Mahan, Admiral, 186
Mahfouz, Naguib, 37, 306
Mahood, Molly, 64
Maine, Sir Henry, 108; Ancient Law, 164;
Rede Lectures, 164; Village Communities,
164
Malaysia, 198, 199, ill, 243, 149, 257
Mali, 197
Malouf, David, xvi
Malraux, Andr6, 71, 78, 188, 192; as amateur
ethnographer-archeologist, 208; La Vote
myall, no, 177, 183, 207-09
Malti-Douglas, Fedwa, Woman's Body,
Woman's World, xxiv
Mandela, Nelson, 198
Manet, Edouard, til
Mangan, J. A., The Games Ethic and
Imperialism, 138
Mangan, James Clarence, 236
Manifest Destiny, 283, 288
Mann, Thomas, Death in Venice, 188, 192
Maori, 103
Marcos, 300
Marcuse, Herbert, 292
Mariategi, Josb, 224
Mariette, Auguste, 113—18, 120-22, 126
Markham, James, 233
Marti, Josi, 214, 224, 243, 264
Martineau, Harriet, 133, 201
Martinique, 171, 231
Marx, Karl, 6, 131, 164, 168, 197, 223, 286,
268-69, 277, 278, 281
Marxism, 49, 63, 194, [99, 210, 266, 270, 278,
320, 321
Mas, Sinbaldo de, 246
Masonry, 119, 120
Massignon, Louis, 263
Matisse, Henri, 110, 242
Mattelart, Armand, 292, 309
Maugham, Somerset, 82
Mau Mau, 230
Maunier, Ren6, The Sociology of Colonies, 170
Maupassant, Guy de, 71, 239; Bel-Ami, 109,
182
Mauritania, 170
Mauritius, 90
Mawaqif 313
Mayer, Amo, 283
Mazrui, Ali, 38-39, 239, 261
McBride, Sean, 291; Report, 292; see also
International Commission for the Study
of Communication Problems
McCaughey, Robert, International Studies
and Academic Enterprise: A Chapter in the
Enclosure of American Learning 321
McClure, John, 64
McCormack, W. M., 236
McGeoghehan, Abbe, 236
McKay, Claude, 243
McKeon, Michael, 70
McMahon, Sir Henry, 247
McNeill, William, The Pursuit of Power, 8
media, 21, 36-37, 302-03, 309, 318, 322, 327,
329; and cultural imperialism, 291-92
Melbourne, xv
Melville, Herman, 63; Moby-Dick , 288, 295
Memmi, Albert, xx, 59, 272
Meredith, George, ioy, 156, 187
Merle, Marcel, L ’Anticolonialirme Europeen de
Las Casas a Karl Marx , 240
Mesopotamian civilization, 297
metropolitan cultures, 35, 51—53, 59, 108, 162,
200, 216' 243, 244, 251
Metropolitan Opera, New York, 114
Michelet, Jules, 78
Middle East, xi, xix, xxiv, 5, 8, 14, 55, 73,
'98, 239, 245, 260, 294, 295, 296, 297, 300,
301, 324; see also names of countries
Middle East Studies Association, 260-^1
migration, theme of, 308, 332
Mill, James, 9, 99, 133, 167
Mill, John Stuart, 9, 71, 80, 81, 99, 102, 105,
130, 133, 163, 167, 205; Principles of Political
Economy, 59, 90, 91
Mille, 71
www.iscalibrary.com
Index
Miller, Christopher, Blank Darkness, 38
Miller, David, The Novel and the Police, 73
Mills, C. Wright, 3 z 4
Milton, John, 305, 315
Mirabeau, Honors Gabriel Riqueti, 24 d
missionaries, 39-41, 193, 249
Mitchel, John, 23d
Mitchell, Timothy, 260; Colonizing Egypt, 111
Mitterrand, Franyois, Presence framyaise ft
abandon, 178
Miyoshi, Masao, 290, 329-30; As We Saw
Them, 262— <13
Mobarak, Ali Pasha, Kbittat Tawfikiya, 129
Mobutu, Sese Seko, 16$
modernism, 330; and dissolution of empire,
186-90, 242, 243
Moi regime, 230
Monroe Doctrine, iHp
Montagu, Lady Wortley, 99
Montaigne, Michel de, 47, 97
Montesquieu, Charles Louis de Secondat,
240
Moore, George, 156
Moore, Thomas, 236
Moorhouse, Geoffrey, iyy
Morazd, Charles, 70
Morocco, 3d, 230, 252, add, 3od
Morris, William, 241
Morrison, Toni, Beloved, 334; Tar Baby, 334
Mountbatten, Earl of Burma, 2d3
Mozambique, xxii
Mubarak, 3d
Mudimbe, V. Y, 239; The Invention of Africa,
>93
Muller, Max, 100
Multatuli, 240
multiculturalism, xiii, xxvi, 300, 320, 331
Munif, Abdelrahman el, 18, 306; Cities of
Salt, 294
Munro, Thomas, 153
Murchison, Sir Roderick, 164, idy, idd
Murphy, Agnes, 169
Mus, Paul, Viet-Nant Soeiokgie d'une guerre,
208-09
Muslim League, 199
Naipaul, V. S., xviii, 19, 21, 54, 227, 257, add,
272, 304, 313; Among the Believers, ady;
A Bend in the River, xix, 2dy; Guerrillas,
2dy
375 -
Napoleon Bonaparte, y8, d3, 16, 97, 98, 99,
2yi, 279, 280; expedition to Egypt 33— 3y,
118, 119, tad
Napoleon 111 , 127, 183
narrative, 274; Arab, aiy; and culture, xx;
and empire, xii, xiii, 23, 26-27, 28, y8,
d2-8o, 99, 132, 183, 174 — 7y; and identity,
xii, xxvi, 237, 313; and moral order, 79;
official, 313, 324; and power, 273; see also
names of authors
Nasser, Gamal Abdel, i2d, 179, 224
National Defense Education Act, 47
National Endowment for the Humanities,
38, 320
nationalism, xxiv, id, 19, 21, 31, 3d, 39, 42, 43,
44, yi, y4, y8, dd, i8y, 2o3-od, 207, 209,
216-19, 223, 224, 227, 228, 229, 243, 248, iy2,
2yy, 297, 260, 261, 264, 2dy, add, 269, 272,
*7<S, J79, 299, 3°f. 3°7, 322, 329, 328, 331;
Arab, 296, 298; and identity, xii, xiii,
xxvi, 267, 299; and liberation movements,
y4; and literacy, 299; and literary study,
316; Middle Eastern, xxiv; narrative of,
273; patriarchal cast of, 224; Third
World, xxiv, 209
nativism, 42, 228, 230, 232, vjp, 276, 307, 318,
32y; and identity, 229; see also nationalism
Ndebele-Shona uprising, 198
nigritude, id, 214, 224, 228, 229, 248, 280, 307
Nehru, Jawaharlal, 217, 224, 263, 264, 276
Neill, Stephen, Colonialism and Christian
Missions, idd
Neruda, Pablo, 31, 226, 232; “El Pueblo,”
233-34; “Deber del Poeta,” 234
Nerval, Gerard, 9, 3y
New Caledonia, 198
New Guinea, 198
New World Information Order, 291
New York, xxvii, 19, 40
New York Times, The, 38, 239, 292
New Zealand, xxvi, y, 73, ioy, 198, 221
Ngasse, 73
Ngugi wa Thiongo (James), xx, 18, 30, 274,
yoy; Decolonising the Mind, 213; The River
Between, 210
Nicaragua, xix, yy, 287, 289
Niebuhr, Reinhold, 29y
Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm, do, 208, 266,
268-69, 277
Nigeria, 76, 198, 266
www.iscalibrary.com
V 6
Index
Nimr, Faris, 248
Nitze, Paul, 195
Nixon, Richard, 288
Nkrumah, Kwame, 224, 243, 23-3
Noriega, Manuel, 300
North Africa, 9, 13, 71, no, 180, 192, 193, 199,
214, 289
North America, Anglo-French competition
in, 83
North-South relationship, 17, 229, 283-84
novel, and aesthetics of empire, 75, 191;
Arabic, 37; and decolonization, 239; and
empire, xii, xv, xxii, 14, 33, 31, 33, 82-80,
Si, 93, 133, 139, 178, 201, 203, 208; and
national identity, 78
Nye, Joseph, 319, 323
Nyerere, Julius, 198, 224
O’Brien, Conor Cruise, 34, 173, 174, 184, 238,
263
O’Brien, Justin, translator of Camus, 177
O’Brien, Patrick, 8
O’Connell, Daniel, 238
occidentalism, 320
O’Grady, Standish, 238
oil, 20, 301, 330; and Middle Eastern
prosperity, 299-300
O’Leary, 232
Omar, Hajji, 197
opera, 81, m-32, 191
Opera, 112
Operation Desert Storm, 294, 297, 298, 301;
see also Gulf War
Orabi uprising, 193, 198, 282
Orient, xvi, 33, 44, 218, 248
Orientalism, xxiv, 17, 32, 42, 44, 48, 32, 74,
99, no, 121
Oriental Renaissance, 194
Orwell, George, 21, 27, 83, 78, 82, 130, 183,
292; and Camus, 172. — 73
Ottoman Empire, xxii, 39, in, 114, 247,
283
Owen, Roger, 126, 127
Oxford, 19
Pacific Rim states, 284
Padmore, George, 243, 233
painting, 99, in, 188
Pakistan, 18, 27, 38, 199, 228, 230, 231, 288,
308, 323, 328
Palestine, 27, 38, 39, 219, 224, 228, 243, 280,
284, 294, 298, 299, 317; intifada, 237, 281,
3 ”, 3 *< 6
Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da, 123
Palmerston, Henry John Temple, 110
Pan-Africanism, 224, 242
Panama, 288, 287, 289
Pan-Arabism, 224
Panikkar, K. M., Asia and Western
Dominance, 224
Pareto, Vilfredo, 134
Paris, 13, 19, 79, 99, 113-18, 123, 177, 242, 244;
International Exhibition, 119
Parnell, Charles Stewart, 232
Parry, Benita, 189, 204; Delusions and
Discoveries, 201
past, images of, 3 — 7, 13-19, 20, 31, 38
Patai, Raphael, 281; The Anti Mind, 280
patriotism, rhetoric of, 38; see also empire;
nationalism
Paulin, Tom, 23S
Pavlidis, Pavlos, see Draneht Bey
Pearse, Patrick Henry, 224
Persia, 7;, 103, 118, 194, 297
Philippines, xix, 8, 64, 214, 218, 230, 248,
249, 273, 289, 328
Physiocratic philosophy, 243, 233
Picasso, Pablo, 188, 242
Pinochet Ugarte, Augusro, 300
Pipes, Daniel, 281
Piroli, Giuseppe, 123
Plato, 49
Plan, D, C. M., 98, 290; Finance, Trade and
Politics in British Foreign Policy, iSjj-1914,
72-74
Pocahontas, 212
Podhoretz, Norman, 172
poetry, 191
Poiret, Abb8, Lcitres de Barharie
Pol Pot regime, 274
Policy Planning Staff, 283
political theory, 80
politics, 318; and aesthetics, 28, 102, 118;
and art, 308; and culture, 28, 239; and
identity, 219, 287, 314; and rhetoric, 238;
and social sciences, 134
Poliziano, Angelo, 197
Porter, Andrew, 113
Porter, Bernard, 188; Critics of Empire,
241
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Index
377
Portugal, xxii, io, 33, 74, 83, 89, 134, 199, 221,
242, 234, 27/; empire, xxii, 88
post-modernism, 329; and consumer
culture, 323
Pound, Ezra, 188
Pratt, Mary Louise, 210-11
print-capitalism, 213
Prochaska, David, 171
Proust, Marcel, 47, 84, 136, 188, 328
Pryce-Jones, David, The Closed Circle, 260
Psichari, Ernest, 71, 78, 182
psychology, 170
Puritans, American, 63
Pye, 290
Qaddafi, Muammar al-, 16$, 315
Qader, Abdel, 110
quest narrative, 30, 210
racism, xxi, 316
Radcliffe, Ann, 76
Raffles, Sir Thomas Stamford Bingley, 23-4
Rafi‘, 126
Ragatz, Lowell Joseph, The Fall of the
Planter Class in the British Caribbean,
17 % 94
Raleigh, Sir Walter, 183
Ramabai, Pundita, 218
Ranger, Terence, 198, 240, 261; (and Eric
Hobsbawm), The Invention of Tradition,
13— 18, 32, 109
Raskin, Jonah, The Mythology of Imperialism,
Rastafarianism, 228
Raynal, Abb8, 83, 97, 240, 246
Reade, Charles, 133
Reagan, Ronald, 284, 320, 327, 328
Renaissance, 193, 197, 210, 292
Renan, Ernest, 44, ioo, 108, 263
resistance, culture of, xii, 30, 33, 209-20,
224, 226, 229, 243, 166-61 , 274, 276, 278,
304, 311, 327, 330; literature of, 30, 224, 223,
232, 243, 274, 276; see also colonialism,
resistance to; empire, resistance to
Retamar, Roberto Femindez, 213
revisionism, xxiv-xxv, 21, 41, 240, 243, 273,
287
Reynolds, Joshua, Discourses, 13
Rhee, Syngman, 300
rhetoric of blame, 18, 39, 81, 96
Rhodes, Cecil, 24, no, 166
Rhys, Jean, Wide Sargasso Sea, 93
Richardson, Samuel, 70; Clarissa, 70
Richelieu, Cardinal, 189
Richetti, John, 70
Richter, Melvin, 183
Ricordi, 113-17, 121
Rimbaud, Arthur, 208
Robbins, Bruce, 63
Roberts, Warren, 87
Robeson, Paul, 248
Robespierre, Maximilien-Franyois-Marie-
Isidore, 248, 280
Robinson, Paul, Opera and Ideas, 113
Robinson, Ronald, 73, 282
Robinson-Gallagher controversy, 8
Rockefeller Foundation, 320
Rodinson, Maxime, 280, 279
Rodney, Walter, xix, 197, 248, 233; How
Europe Underdeveloped Africa, 39
Rod6,Jos8 Enrique, 214; Ariel 278
Rogin, Michael Paul, 83
Roman Empire, 7, 134, 221, 286
Roosevelt, Theodore, 288
Rostow, Walt Whitman, 290
Roth, Philip, 277
Roug8, Emmanuel, 118
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 44, 80, 97, 240,
248, 280
Roy, Ramuhan, 218
Royal Geographical Society, 184
Rushdie, Salman, xx, 22, 27, 31, 243, 317, 329;
Midnight's Children, 218, 334; The Satanic
Verses, 17, 21, 28, 308, 308, 310, 328
Rusk, Dean, 288
Ruskin, John, xiv, 9, 12, 79, 103, 130, 182, 183,
217; Slade Lectures, 101-04
Russia, 8, 10, 44, 72, 98, 134, 130, 183;
empire, xxii
Sabry, Muhammad, 128, 127
Sadat, Anwar, 293
Said, Ali Ahmed, set Adonis
Said, Edward, Orientalism, xi, xii, xxii, xxiii,
xxiv, xxv, 41, 34, 193
Said, Nuri as-, 198
St Pierre, Bernardin de, 240
Saint-Saens, Charles Camille, Samson and
Delilah, no
Saint-Simon, Claude Henri, 120
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378
Index
Salan, 182
Salih, Tayeb, 274, 517; Season of Migration to
the North, 30, 211
Samory, 197
Samuel, Raphael, 312
Sanskrit, 193, 197, 303
Santo Domingo, 193', 231, 279
Sarrauc, Albert, 170; Grandeur et servitude
cokniales, [84
Sartre, Jean-Paul, 181, 196, 197, 242, 278, 304,
328
Saudi Arabia, 18, 36, 232, 294, 297, 300
Saussure, Leopold de, 170
Scandinavia, 282
Schiller, Herbert, 292, 309
Schlegel, August Wilhelm von, 44
Schlegel, Friedrich von, 44, 197
Schlessinger, Arthur, The Disuniting of
America, xxvi
Schumpeter, Joseph, 3, 72, 221
Schwab, Raymond, 194-93; The Oriental
Renaissance, 118-19
Scott, Sir Walter, 73, 77, 78, 117, 133, 213
Seal, Anil, The Emergence of Indian
Nationalism, 203-06
Second International Congress of
Geographical Sciences, 169—70
Seeley, J. R., 6, 9, 33, 71, 107, 110, 1 66, 169,
186, 187, r88
Segalen, 71, 183
Seillibre, Ernest, 170
Selassie, Haile, 300
Semidei, Manuel, 180
Senegal, 170, 219, 228, 242
Senghor, Leopold, 196, 224, 228, 232, 243, 262
separatism, see nationalism
Shaarawi, Huda, 218
Shakespeare, William, xiii, 47, 32, 79, 137,
297, 303, 320; The Tempest, 212—14
Shan, Sher, 139
Sharabi, Hisham, 232
Shariati, Ali, 30, 333
Sheikh, Jamal Ben, 329
Shipler, David, Arab and Jem, 261
Sick, Gary, AU Fall Down, 233
Simpson, Senator Alan, 293
Singapore, 73
Sivan, Emmanuel, 261
slavery, xiii, 22, 37, 89, 94, 102, 173, 240-41,
239, 270, 281, 316
Slotkin, Richard, 63; Regeneration Through
Violence, 288
Smith, Anthony, The Geopolitics of
Information, 291
Smith, Bernard, European Vision and the
South Pacific, 99
Smith, Goldwin, 166
Smith, John, 212
Smith, Neil, Uneven Development, 223
Smollett, T obias George, 70
sociology, 41, 44, 170
Solon, 33
Somalia, 126
Somaliland, 198
Somoza, Anastasio, 300
Sorabjee, Cornelia, 218 1
South Africa, 73, 103, 134, 198, 326
South America, xviii, 62, 89, 219, 220, 287;
represented by Conrad, 132, 323
South Seas, represented by Conrad, 132
Soviet Union, 34, 33, 199, 242, 282, 286
Soyinka, Wole, xx, 229, 234, 239, 243, 273
Spain, 10, 33, 83, 89, 134, 199, 221, 234; Civil
War, 172; empire, xxii, 7; Republic, 233
Spence, Jonathan, To Change China, 263
Spenser, Edmund, 7, 32, 221; View of the
Present State of Ireland, 222, 236
Spenser, Herbert, 141
Spitzer, Leo, 43, 43, 316
Sputnik, 47
Stafford, Robert, 164-63
Stanley, Henry, 100, 166
Steel, Ronald, Walter Lippmann and the
American Century, 284-83
Srendhal, 47, 77, 78, 137; Le Rouge et le noir,
98
Stepan, Nancy, 100
Sterne, Laurence, 70
Stevens, Wallace, 333
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 63
Stocking, George, 101, 108
Stone, I. F., 328
Stone, Oliver, JFK, 313; Salvador, xix
Stone, Robert, xviii, 324; A Flag for Sunrise,
Strachey, John, The End of Empire, 198
Stravinsky, Igor, 242; Sucre du printcmps, 188
Street, Brian, The Savage in Literature, 100
structuralism, 321
Suarez, Francisco, 240
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379
Subaltern Studies, 38, iq, 231, 233, 2 66, 311, 513
Sudan, 36, 73, 274
Suez, 200; Canal, 38, 115, 120, 126, 127, 135
Sukarno, 224
Suleri, Sara, The Rhetoric of English Indian,
xxiv
Sumatra, 237
surrealism, 2 66
Swift, Jonathan, 223, 238, 29 6
Switzerland, 44
Syria, 39, 198, 219, 247-48, 252, 298, 300, 308
Tagore, Rabindranath, 219, 232, 264, 313-;
Nationalism, 213
T ahiti, 198
Tahtawi, 232
Taiwan, 330
T empels, Pladde, Bantu Philosophy, 193
Temple, Charles, 100
T ennyson, Alfred Lord, 182, The Idylls of the
King 103
terrorism, 27, 309-10, 327
Thackeray, William Makepeace, xiv, 88, 71,
15 , 10 3, 133 > 318; y unity Fair, 82, 74, 78, 83
Thapar, Romila, 188
Thatcher, Margaret, 327, 328
Third World, xix, 93, 288; anti-Western
histories, 34; after colonialism, 21;
colonialist practices, 17-18; decolonization
of, xii; nationalism, 218; Western views
of, xvii-xviii, 28
Thompson, Edward M., 209, 240; The Other
Side of the Medal, 147, 206-07, 209
Thornton, A, P., 168; The Imperial Idea and
Its Enemies, 241
Tibawi, A. L., 232
Tibi, Bassam, 232
Tillion, Germaine, 183
Tocqueville, Alexis de, 182-83, 10 T, on
Algeria, 241
Todorov, Tzvetan, 278; Nous et les autres, 97
Tolstoi, Leo, 217
Tompkins, J. M. S., 140
Tone, Wolf, 222, 238
Tonkin, 198
Toronto, 323
Toussaint L’Ouverture, 246-47, 248, 231,
2 f 3 > 2 5 6 , 2 79 , 280
travel writing, xv, xviii, 73, 99, 187, 189, 263
Trevelyan, Charles, 109
Trilling, Lionel, 63
Trinidad, 247
Trois Contes, 173
Trollope, Anthony, 166
T rujillo Molina, Rafael Lednidas, 236
Tucker, Judith, 42, 260
Tucker, Robert W., 288 ■
Tunisia, 192, 286
Turkey, 6, 189, 218, 287, 298, 333
Turner, Brian, Marx and the End of
Orientalism, 41
Turner, Victor, 140-41
Twain, Mark, 83, 287; The Adventures of
Huckleberry Finn, 138
Uganda, 73, 273
Union des Travailleurs Ndgres, 242
United Irishmen, 238 ,
United Nations, 38, 199, 242, 283, 287, 293,
300
United States, xi, xxvi, 33, 39, 48, 47, 30, 34,
37, 132, 214, 233, 280, 287, 278, 281, 313, 323,
329; anti-imperialist policy, 3, 241-42;
controversy about cultural literacy, 328;
and cultural identity, xxv; decline in
economic power, 284; foreign policy,
282-303, 322; and Gulf War, 4-3, 20,
36-37, 73, i)i, 286; history of, xxvi, 193;
imperial coherence, xxii, xxiii; as
imperial power, xvii-xix, 6, 7, 8-9, 10,
64 171, 199, 282-93, 298; military
interventions, 33, 283-88, 326; as last
superpower, xxiii, 34, 282; and official
narrative, 324; territorial expansion,
63, 288-89; and transnational inter-
dependence, 319; and world-English
group, 308
universities, xxvi, 239, 303; Arab English
departments, 304-0 3; modem secular, 321
Updike, John, 277
Van Alstyne, Richard, The Rising American
Empire, 8, 293
Vatican, the, 240
Vatimo, Gianni, 329
Vendler, Helen, 73
Venice, 72
Verba, 290
Verdi, Giuseppi, 148; Aida, 112—32; Attila, 113;
Un Balia in Maschera, 112; Don Caries, 112,
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Index
Verdi ( continued)
116; Faistaff, 113; La Forza del Destino, 112;
I Lombardi, 112, 113; Nabucco, 112, 1 13—14;
Otello, 113; Rigoletto, 112, 115; Simon
Boccanegra, 112; La Traviata, 112;
II Trovatore, 112
Verne, Jules, 187
Vico, Giovanni Battista, 44
Victoria, Queen, 240, 312; as Empress of
India, 16
Vietnam, xix, xxiii, 8, 21, 27, 55, 130, 196, 199,
224, 242, 259, 264, 284, 285, 286, 289, 290,
291, 315, 324
Virgil, 189
Virilio, Paul, 316, 331, 332
Viswanathan, Gauri, 42, 109
Vitoria, Francisco de, 240
Volney, 83, 97, 121
Voltaire, 240
Vossler, Karl, 45
voyage in, 216, 239-61
Wagner, Richard, 113, 115, 117;
Gotterdammerung, 112; Tristan, 112
Wagner, Wieland, 112, 124
Walcott, Derek, 31, 313
Walker, Frank, 113
Wallerstein, Immanuel, 311, 334-35
Wall Street Journal, The, 37, 292
Walpole, Horace, 76
Warraht of Precedence, 155
Washington, D.C., xviii, 310
Washington, George, 295
Waterloo, 75
Watt, Ian, 29, 70
Weaver, William, 113
Webb, Beatrice and Sidney, 99, 203
Weber, Max, 154
Wechsberg, Joseph, 113
Weinberg, Albert K., Manifest Destiny, 288
West Africa, 105, 199, 219, 264
West Indies, 51, 59, 89, 90, 94, 101, 199
White, Hayden, Metabistory, 304
White, Patrick, xvi
Wilberforce, William, 84, 256
Wilkins, Charles, 153
Williams, Eric, 94, 255, 257, 259, 313;
Capitalism and Slavery, 95
Williams, Raymond, xxvii, 14, 41, 52, 172—73,
259, 278, 328; The Country and the City, 65,
82-84, * 7 i 9 2 > 95 Culture and Society, 65,
2 43 _ 44
Williams, William Appleman, 5, 55, 64-65,
7 2 > 2 »7
Wilson, Angus, The Strange Ride of Rudyard
Kipling, 150
Wilson, Edmund, 145
Wolf, Eric, 64
Wollstonecraft, Mary, 218
women’s movement, 218, 266, 267, 300,
3 "
Woodberry, Edward, 46-47, 48
Woolf, Virginia, 47; A Room of One’s Oran,
334; To the Lighthouse, 189
Wordsworth, William, 60, 81, 305
World Order Models Project, 283
World War I, 71, 194, 197, 219, 221, 263
World War II, 7, 25, 197, 198, 219, 224, 241,
242, 285, 288, 316, 335
Yacine, Kateb, 185, 259
Yariko, 212
Yeats, William Butler, 16, 56, 188, 264;
“Among School Children,” 237; “The
Circus Animals’ Desertion,” 237; and
decolonization, 220-21, 226-38; “Easter
1916,” “Ego Dominus Tuus,” 227;
and fascism, 227-28, 230, 233; “The
Fisherman,” 233-34; “Leda and the
Swan,” 235; and mysticism, 227-28, 230;
“Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen,” 232;
“A Prayer for My Daughter," 237; and
Protestant Ascendancy, 227; resisting
imperialism, 232; The Rose, 226; “The
Second Coming,” 235; “September 1913,"
232; “The Statues,” 227; “The Tower,”
234, 237; The Tower, 235; “Under Ben
Bulben,” 237; A Vision, 227
Yeltsin, Boris, 328
Young, Marilyn, 290
Yugoslavia, xx, 284
Zaghloul, Saad, 196
Zaire, 230, 275
Zaydan, Girgi, 215
Zia, 27
Zinn, Howard, 5, 287
Zionism, 5, 260
Zola, Emile, 47, 156, 160, 187
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